


The Final Toll

by nightram



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Akuze, Angst, Body Horror, Depression, Destroy Ending, Dissociation, EMDR, EMDR therapy, F/M, Flashbacks, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Indoctrination Theory, Missing Limbs, Non-English dialogue, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Post-Mass Effect 3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self administered first aid, Self-Harm, Sole Survivor (Mass Effect), Spacer (Mass Effect), Vanguard (Mass Effect)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:59:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 26,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightram/pseuds/nightram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Tags (including characters, ships and triggers) will be added as narrative progresses.</i>
</p>
<p>A wounded soldier -- Lieutenant Commander Shepard -- is found in the Citadels remains after the Reapers were defeated. The Hero of the Citadel, and one who activated the Crucible; she is now the Saviour of the Galaxy. She has gained much, but at what cost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inadequacy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will aim to explore the results of the Indoctrination theory ending; the psychological toll of it and the events of the Crucible (and those leading up to the final battle), and the physical damage also. Foreign dialogue will be included -- will be explained further in.

Her swollen eyelids make it too hard for the soldier to see clearly when she cracks them open. What she can make out is how dark it is, and how stained and greyed the walls containing her are. Small lights blink at her in a daze beside her, each breath leaves her lips damp. The respirator sighs in her stead.

She can’t sit up. Each and every joint in her body thrums to the beat of her pulse, an uncomfortable warmth dancing between the bone. Parts of her body feel like blacked out cities on the grid. There are so many uncomfortable silences in the network of her nerves; they mirror the blank passages in her memory. 

The soldier could recall fragments who she was. Her name, her family, her achievements. But there was a lingering haze. She’d been the Commanding Officer of a ship. Surely she knew people, can’t not have -- there’s no way she could command a ship entirely through a VI. The hollowness in her hands insisted that there were people she was missing, even if she could not remember. People who’d be holding her as she lay here, a bloody mess.

But there were no faces in her foggy consciousness. Letters, and half-names, some colours. A freckled brilliant blue and leathery mahogany brown.

She held so many fond memories, but all were of faceless strangers.

She is alone.

Were these people even alive? 

There had been a great war. It existed, but it was nothing tangible beyond unconscious horrors that consumed her closed eyes. She knew she had lain in the heart of it’s climactic wreckage. She did not know why or how, but she knew. The residual taint of reluctant purpose never fully faded from the spirit.

Monstrous creatures had borne down on the world of her heritage. Towers fell with a deafening bass. Flames licked at the hard cover of her boot whilst everyone screamed and prayed. Vibrant red beams had cut through entire buildings while these faceless people so close beside her watched their homes burn within a reach of their hand. A reach of her own.

If she were to close her eyes and dream hard enough, she could feel the warmth beside her. Their presence. Their scent. And the pungent stench of fleshy remains as they burned, and the noxious reek of melting waste. The fear of death. The emptiness of her inadequacy.

She is cold when the sudden shadow of the synthetic image of a God blocks the hot sun. The ground shakes when its tendrils rip into the earth. It ruptures the earth, corrupts it, lays it’s festering eggs. It’s ugly children are soon to follow. Someone screams her name.

Mouth agape, she can only watch as the demon opens its jagged mouth. It is all hard edges; precise, calculated. Created in the perfect image -- one she could never comprehend. A bulging red eye rolls in it’s mechanical socket. It pulsates when it finds her feeble form shaking where it stands. The sight of it consumes her, it is all she knows. Her gun falls to her feet but makes no sound. The destruction about her drowns it out.

Then the beam begins to form.

Hot ashes are sucked into the molten core as a thick, heavy, terrifying note powers to life within the belly of the beast. It is enough to make the soldier’s ears ring. The sensation shakes her skull and bruises her body and soul. She has to close her eyes to escape it, but even then she can’t hide from the white light that throws her to the ground. The light that latches onto her, the light that rips off each layer of her with a red hot knife.

She wakes with a choked scream and she is held down to the bed by frantic voices and cold hands.

The incessant beeping to her left is loud and fast, it pierces her buzzing ears; her breath beside her wheezes to keep her aware. 

“ _Necesito un sedante. Mantenga inmóvil mientras me inyecto ella._ ”


	2. Wreckage

When she stirs for the first time, it’s to the whirl of electricity beneath her tattered skin. Her eyes don’t open; she isn’t awake, but she can still feel. Her body burns. The sensation snakes through her veins and stings like ants. It is as if a forest fire were set in the coals buried deep in her bones. The acid in her muscles prickle her deprived breaths and what is left her organic heart lags with the mechanical beat of her cybernetics. 

She can’t cry out, she can’t move, she can only be.

Some hours later, her eyelids move. There is a distinct sensation of nothing where her left knee is and her toes feel dull. Patches of numbness litter her charred body where her hardsuit has adhered to her skin. The descent from the Crucible’s dock was a scaulding one.

Heavy, uneasy; that is what her stomach feels. Starved from days of food, her gut cramps and aches. The pooling blood from a puncture somewhere leaves her faintly nauseous. Her head begins to pound.

It’s as if no matter how hard she tries, she simply cannot pull in enough air. It’s as if she were choking. There is dust and grit in her throat and it grazes every time she swallows.

When she musters the strength to open her eyes she wonders how worthless an endeavour it was. Everything is a blur. Blobs of black, grey and red are all she can see, but there is a distinct blue if she looks to her left. Have the clouds cleared since the final push, whenever that was?

Electrical fires crackle around her as she lay in the Citadel’s wreckage. There is a collapsed pylon artfully placed on her deadened leg; thankfully the rest of it’s debris is not on top her. For the most part. 

Her tonsils tickle, and she tries to sputter a cough. The movement ignites her sleeping nerves and leaves her in agony. With every sensation bursting to life in her body, the thumping in her head increases exponentially. Her vision loses focus even further, and a distinct blackness creeps in from the corners of her field. She tries to fight it, but she’s just so tired. She’s had enough. All that exists is pain, all that she can remember is pain; all she knows is pain.

The soldier’s chin clips her collar when her head lolls forward.

Some hours pass.

It’s cold when she finds her eyes open once more. From what she can make of what she assumes is the sky, it’s a dull purple but there’s a hint of orange as the sun graces the horizon.

She can’t shiver even though it’s freezing. She blinks a few times and finds feeble the exertion exhausting. When she tries to adjust the angle of her aching neck, dried blood crackles and pulls at the fine hairs along it. She begins to wonder where she is. She tries to think but her mind wanders into old memories of a forest.

When the soldier fazes back into vague consciousness, she has gathered enough wits about her to begin the arduous process of roving her battered mind. What is she doing here? How did she get here?

Who was she? A familiar boy beckons she return to hear dreaming mind.

Next it is the strange sounds of language that rouses her. The sounds are far off, but enough to remind her lethargic thoughts to be alert. She is vulnerable. She can’t tell if she even knows what she is hearing. Are other people here, or is it the wildlife desperately searching for food? What’s to say they aren’t one in the same.

Lying there half covered by rubble, she listens to the echoing of foreign chatter. The noises are rich. Velvet-like. They click and hum. There is one that’s more flat like the clammy dialogue in her head. Soldiers? They are too distant for her to make out their words clearly.

When the lull conversation dies, there is the crunching of footsteps coming closer. A beam of light briefly passes over her but continues on. She makes a mangled moan.

“ _Was war das?_ ”

She is blinded by a beam of light once more. Fear bubbles in her empty stomach.

Then two more lights scatter over her as she lay there prone, struggling to gasp. She has the overwhelming urge to cry.

“ _Ist jemand dort drunter eingeklemmt?_ ”

“ _Quomodo vivet?_ ” This voice is strong and there are chirps between heavy breaths. Deep in contrast to the other.

A shrill whine echoes. “ _Vide qualis sit._ ”

Shepard cries out when the weighty support is forcefully shoved off her pinned limb. It is a relief to the shattered bones but did nothing to quell the hot pain that rushed through her. She sees the smaller of the blurred figures move towards her.

Kneeling, the Lieutenant searches for a dog tag to identify the grossly scared soldier. “ _Können Sie sich identifizieren?_ ” she asks while gingerly patting down the charred human before her. Thankfully the metal chain is still about her neck, and the Lieutenant rubs off the black marks on the tag with he gloved thumb.

There is no attempt to hide the shocked gasp that crackles through her Comm system. She goes rigid. “ _Ensign, kontaktieren Sie sofort die Such- und Rettungsmaßnahmen._ ”

“ _Quid est hoc?_ ” The Turian soldier with marks of vivid red across their cheeks raises a wrist and the familiar glow of an orange Omnitool splutters into life where the squad is gathered. There is more unintelligible sounds. “ _Quid iam adeptus es?_ ”

The ranking officer unintentionally smears the charcoal on the unmoving soldier’s cheek in an attempt to clean it and tries to get a closer look at her current state. It’s hard to make out her features for all the swelling and bruising. “ _Wir haben Commander Shepard gefunden. Wir brauchen so schnell wie möglich ein medizinisches Team hier._ ” 

She shifts her weight back and stands, turning her attention to the two Turian soldiers in her charge. “ _Sie ist in einem schlechten Zustand. Ich bin erstaunt, dass sie überhaupt noch lebt._ ”

“ _Intelligo._ ”


	3. Shepard

There is a bitter taste in her mouth. It’s all along her gums and she smacks her lips in an attempt to get it off her tongue. She opens her eyes when a cold rod is forced between her teeth.

A doctor carefully takes notes on the other end of the thermometer. The striking blue skin is all the injured soldier can see in her still obscured vision. The unusual form is familiar to her, but chimes no significant chord on her foggy mind. It all is a mosaic of colour to her.

How long was she asleep for? There is no residual tension from the nightmare that shook her when she awoke previously. She tries to not reflect on it.

“Can you tell me what your name is?” It takes a moment to recognise the language spoken at her. There is a long pause as the dusty mechanics of her mind try to shift. There is such a heavy burden on her shoulders that she can’t shake. She imagines that the doctor is trying to hide her look of expectation. 

Her voice is rasped when she tries to speak and she tries to ignore the tubes in her face. “Sh... Shepard?” She’s unsure; thrown further by the foreignness of her voice. “I’m Shepard.” She can hear the familiar tapping of nails on a holographic screen.

“Do you have any family, Shepard?” 

It’s reassuring hearing that name repeated back at her. Yes, that’s her. She is someone, not some pained construct trapped in this endless loop of fear and panic. She is not without significance.

She exists, she is tangible. She is not lost, and they will not lead her astray. They will no longer whisper to her in her dreams, they won’t tug and pull at her strained perception. They won’t take her.

They will never lie to her again.

“Shepard.”

Who?

She lifts her chin from where it hangs against her chest. Her mind had wandered. Far beyond this room.

“Sorry. Could you repeat your question?”

A pause. “Do you have any family?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice sounds scared. What if she did? What if they were right behind the door that she can’t see and they can hear her right now. What if her father or grandmother were to walk in, and she wouldn’t know them for a stranger in the crowd?

“What about any significant others, Shepard? Close friends?”

She frowns. “I’m… not sure.” What if she really is alone?

“That’s okay,” is the chime of reassurance. “We have your military records.” She doesn’t know if this is supposed to be comforting, because it’s not. It unnerves her that they know who is lying in this hard bed, but she doesn’t. They won’t tell her, won’t they?

“Do people know that I’m here?” 

“Some.” There is hesitation twitching in her cold, stiff fingers. The ambiguous answer only leaves more unsettling questions. Although it could simply mean that people have been unreachable, or maybe she simply does not have a close circle of friends and family. It still doesn’t feel right though.

“You need to get some more rest, Shepard. Someone will be in to see you and take your stats again in an hour or two.”

She keeps her head on the sterile smelling pillow and tries to ignore the familiar hanging drip beside her. She pretends that she isn’t just meat and tubes. When the Asari doctor exits silently, she can’t help but cry for the losses she can’t place.


	4. Brushing the Surface

It’s uncomfortable. The rigid mattress has slowly conformed to her motionless body lain across it. She wants to roll onto her side but the drip in her left arm and the brace on the other won’t allow it. Everything won’t stop aching. She couldn’t count the days between her episodes of lucidity. If she could shift her weight just a little then maybe she could alleviate some of this pain.

Only one of the staff who’ve tended to her have spoken her language. Her exhaustion made it hard enough to comprehend her native tongue let alone try to understand the foreign ones gracing her ringing ears. She struggled to articulate her needs. More importantly, she felt alone and isolated. Her nightmares haunted her waking mind and shook her from any unsedated sleep.

Sometimes she’d see flashes of red light when she observed the bleached walls that surrounded her. The colour would make her jolt and her heart race. There is just enough time between them to make her wonder if the previous flash had even happened.

She still couldn’t feel her leg.

“Good afternoon.”

She jumps with a loud gasp, but the wires and tubes protruding from parts of her prevent too much movement. The motion makes her nerves flare like a hot fire, and her eyes prickle with tears. Her cheeks still feel crusty from her last fit of tears.

A blue swath leans over her and adjusts the mask that has become tangled on her face. She breathes in the cool air.

“How are you feeling today?” It’s the Asari doctor who saw her occasionally. It was hard to make out her features, but her voice was subdued and she wore light colours. She is thankful for someone to speak to.

“Sore,” she wheezes and attempts to clench her fists.

“You’re due for your next dose,” she hums, “you’ll feel better once I connect it to your IV.” She places a reassuring hand on the soldier’s wrapped arm before turning away.

It’s hard for her to see although her vision has improved marginally. She can see the doctor turn away and fiddle with the bag suspended beside her. She isn’t sure which tube in her it’s connected to.

A question burns her tongue and she can’t help but let it slip from between her lips. “Will anyone visit me?”

The doctor hesitates, only for a moment, but it’s enough for her to notice. “I’m visiting you, aren’t I?” 

“But you’re not someone I know.” The soldier blinks slowly, seemingly staring blindly through the woman. “Will my family see me?”

With a click, the bag is connected to the drip and the cooling blue liquid drips down the tube. “Would you recognise them if they were to see you, Shepard?” The doctor turns slowly. Is she wringing her hands?

“I,” she sighs quietly and her eyes sting again, “no. Probably not.” She pulls her lips tight when she feels a tremble. She’s afraid of being left alone.

Wiping her hands on her thighs, the doctor perches on the edge of the bed. “What do you remember?”

“I remember the cities falling. I remember people wordlessly screaming and weeping. I remember the red lights and their deafening horns.” Suddenly there is a lump in her throat and her voice catches when she tries to speak. “I, I remember saying goodbye then running.”

The doctor leans forward, her interest piqued. “Who did you say goodbye to?” 

Carefully she closes her eyes. She makes sure to stay very still, as not to scare the timid memories swimming in the murky pool of her mind. She tries to visualise the moment, eager to capture a more vivid picture. 

Some things come to her faster than others. There’s the scent of blood, burning, and fuel. She smells ash in the air. Looking up from the mud she watches the black dots and embers fall from the sky. The clouds are black and ominous, no light penetrates their thick form.

She’s on her side, then shifts to her hands and knees. Her head hurts after being rattled from the explosion. The mud smears all over her armour and makes it hard to get traction. She feels something bump her arm and see’s someone beside her also scrambling to their feet. Looking over her shoulder, she can see a battlefield through her dirtied visor.

The ringing in her ears begins to fade and her mind emerges from a fog she hadn’t realised had settled. The deafening tone subsides slowly. The screams and shouts it’s replaced with make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

The form beside her calls her name and she turns quickly to face them. She can’t see their face, but recognises the familiar light coloured armour. They’re helping up someone tall who was hurt in the explosion. She’s quick to add her own strength.

Where the trio are, they’re exposed. With effort, she helps drag her injured soldier behind an upturned Mako and hides in it’s shadow. The faceless memory is curled into themselves, the figure beside them huddling against the vehicle’s side.  
She instinctively raises two fingers to her ear and taps her helmet, gesturing the communications to activate. When she speaks, she barely recognises her own voice and it sends chills down her spine. “Normandy, do you copy?” she shouts. “I need an evac. Right now!” There’s a crackled response littered with static.

Another explosion shakes their refuge. She flinches at the sound and sees the flash in her peripheral just over the Mako’s tyres. She reaches for the injured soldier and takes their arm.  
Glancing over her shoulder, away from the explosion, she sees a familiar ship land. 

She heaves the massive arm over her neck her arm wrapped around their small waist, and helps them up. “Come on,” she grunts, taking their weight. 

Soldiers rush past them as they move against the crowd up the wet slope. The other soldier in her party skirts around the pair and hurries up the ramp that lowers to kiss the earth. Blaring engines drown out the sounds of war, and their deafening noise comforts her. They are the sound of home.

She brings the soldier to the ship, and feels her heart grow heavy. She knows this is the last time she will ever hold him. “Here,” she commands, her voice hiding her grief, “take him.” The figure reaches out for the pair. She hears her name, but pushes him towards the ship. She paces back, blood rushing in her ears.

“You gotta get out of here,” she frowns. Her eyes burn from the soot and tears.

The injured figure snarls. “And you’ve gotta be kidding me.” The soldier supporting him watches silently. She replies, but there is a jolt like a scratch in they playback on a file. It jumps the moment she forms the name on her lips.

“We’re in this til the end,” he grunts through gritted teeth, determined to hide the pain. 

Her stomach sinks. The burning in her eyes spreads to her throat and threatens to seize her tongue. “No matter what happens here,” she chokes, pacing back up the ramp towards him. “You know I love you,” she swallows, “I always will.”

She reaches her hand out to touch his face. It’s all a blur, but she can see his eyes as clear as day. She drinks in their sight, commits the stunning blue to memory. She wishes this wasn’t goodbye. He mumbles her name, but stops. His burnt armour tickles her nose. They watch each other amidst the terror.

“... love you too,” he whispers.

She can’t stay, she can’t wait any longer. She has to move now. They need to move if there’s any hope of their survival. She backs up, and he desperately reaches for her, his weight dragging the figure supporting him wordlessly. His fingers flex. 

She almost reaches back, but forces herself to wave her hand dismissively. “Go!”

Soldiers on the ramp fire off rounds from their rifles. She forces herself to turn away, pushes her legs to take her as fast as she can. The tears pool in her eyes as she rushes back down the muddy slope, crawling over the upturned vehicles and past the dead soldiers littered down the hill. When she hears the ship take off, the tears begin to spill. She reaches for her gun, a flash goes off beside her.

Jolting back into reality, she lets out a startled grunt. Her heart is racing. She’s back in the hospital room, the asari doctor watching her silently. She tries to lift a hand to wipe the tears streaming down her face, but doesn’t have enough range of motion. She drops her head back against the pillow and tries not to sob.

The doctor doesn’t ask if she’s okay, because she’s not.

“I can’t remember him,” she whispers, her voice shaking. “I… I can’t remember his name. I can’t remember any of their names.” The monitor beside her beeps frantically. “I radioed for the _Normandy_ ; my ship, but,” she swallows a breath of air from her mask.

“It’s okay, Shepard,” the doctor soothes, a careful hand placed on hers. “It will come to you in pieces. You need to be patient.” 

“What if they’re all dead?” she mumbles. She flexes her hands, eyes darting about the room. Grief seizes her like a cold vice.

“Shepard, you need to calm down,” the Asari hums, her voice tainted with concern, “it will be easier if you relax.”

“What if I’ll never remember?” she shouts in a fit of panic, “What if they find I’m here? I’m not me without these memories. I may as well be dead!” Her throat is tight. She can’t take in enough air. Her lungs feel starved. Her veins scream.

The doctor is on her feet now, and is holding her shoulders down. The pressure feels like rocks stacked on the joints. “Shepard, please!” Up close, her face is easier to make out. Her freckles are like the stars and her pupils are small with fear. “Please, I don’t want to sedate you.”

She tries to fight free, but is far too injured to release herself. Instead she lets out a mangled cry and sobs between frantic breaths. Her chest hurts. The incessant beeping beside her is making her head point and her nerves flare. The emotions are too overwhelming, and she’s so scared. She tries to writhe, her teeth grit.

The doctor pushes harder, and she gives up and sinks into the bed again. She gasps for air.

The room is silent while her exploding senses fade and fizzle. She sniffs loudly, and rolls her head to the side to hide from the doctor who now hovers around the side of her bed. She’s suddenly so embarrassed and ashamed. 

“Leave,” she whispers.

“What?”

“I said _leave_.”


	5. Ceberus

Disgust and shame tainted her interactions as she festered in her hospital bed. She stewed on her foggy memories, furious at her lapses in knowledge. The only company she had was her mind, even more so since the Asari doctor never came by since their last encounter, and she was yet to meet another staff member who spoke her language. She had come to the conclusion her minor digital interfaces were shut off while her more important cybernetics were being repaired and slowly brought online. All the nurses and doctors understood her, but she couldn’t understand them.

As strength was gradually restored to her shaking hands, no one came to visit her. There was no Majors or Admirals to address her, no family to comfort her, no friends to laugh with her. She was no closer to knowing the full details of the events that had transpired, but she was well aware of how dire the situation had been. She could feel the residual stress and trepidation in her tired bones. She had no names she could ask for, and it cut her deeper than any knife.

She felt like a disappointment.

Rolling her head back against the stiff pillow, she stares up at the stained ceiling. Her eyes have mostly healed now and she can make out the fine details in the watermarks. Her oxygen mask fills with mist with every exhale. She’s grown accustomed to the dryness of her mouth and emptiness of her stomach. The rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor is a constant annoyance that she has learnt to tune out.

A knock at her closed door demands her attention. “Come in,” she wheezes. The door clicks open and a nurse peers in. 

“Shepard, it’s been a while,” a woman sighs as she weaves past. Her dark hair hangs loosely about her shoulders, and her white uniform brings about a sensation of bitter nostalgia. “I had heard rumours, but I wasn’t quite sure they were true. I had to see you for myself.”

She watches the stranger carefully, not willing to speak. They clearly shared a past, but nothing that immediately jumped to mind. Lying there, she clenches her fists the best she can.

The woman presses a gloved hand to her chest and feigns offense. “What, no “hello”?” She frowns, and a nurse whispers into her ear. “Oh,” her frown deepens, “I see.”

“ _Вот диаграммы пациента_ ,” the nurse says, removing the chart from the foot of the bed and handing them to the woman.

Taking the glowing orange pad in hand, she watches the words and graphs snake across the screen. “Would you mind giving us a moment?” With a bow of her head, the nurse excuses herself.

“You’re surprisingly quiet, Shepard,” the stranger comments as she paces the room reading the chart. “How are you feeling?”

With a trained gaze, she observes the newcomer. She’s confident, fit. She wants to trust her but there is an old intuitive thought that nags at the back of her head. _You can never trust Cerberus_ , it chants quietly, over and over. She scans the familiar uniform and focuses on the insignia above the left breast. “Who are you?” she rasps.

“Shouldn’t you answer my question first? Did you forget your manners too?” There’s a humourless giggle that slips from the stranger’s lips. She inputs some commands into the datapad before hooking back onto the foot of the bed. “I’m Miranda Lawson, the one who rebuilt you from the ground up.”

She shifts her head to see the woman as she comes to her bedside. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re quite behind in the grand scheme of things Shepard,” she hums, placing her hands on the rail framing the mattress. “It was hard enough the first time you found out. I won’t put you through that again.” Miranda’s eyes droop briefly before focusing back on the soldier.

“Why are you here, Miranda?” The name forms familiar shapes with her tongue.

“Your friend, the Shadow Broker, found me,” she smiles sadly and she grips the bar tighter. “No one knows your body better than me. Naturally, I’m the only one who understands the breadth of the technology inside you and how to get it singing again.”

There is a hint of hope in her voice when she speaks, and she’s surprised by it. “Will you be able to restore my memory?”

“I’m not sure,” Miranda shrugs with honesty. Taking a step back, she lifts her left wrist and her Omnitool springs to life. Gesturing over the bed, she scans the soldier. “You need to be mindful of the trauma you went through, Shepard. If there’s some circuits that are shut off, I can fix that sure, but I can’t influence how your brain reacts to your injuries. You’re lucky to be alive.”

She tries to ignore Miranda’s lecture and instead draws her brows together. She watches the figures click on the Omnitool and tries to make sense of what she can see, albeit reversed from her angle. 

“Hmm, only 47 percent of your cybernetics are online,” Miranda says quietly to herself. “No wonder you’re not improving.” Turning her device off, she plants her hands on her slim hips. “I might need to crack you open again, Shepard, I’m sorry.”

The thought sparks fear in her stomach. “Surgery?” She reaches for the bedsheets.

“It won’t be much. I just need a closer look at your heavy skin weave and some of your organ augmentations.” Flipping her hair back, Miranda flashes a toothy smile. “I’ll speak to your doctors about it first. I promise I won’t let you down, Shepard.”


	6. Anaesthetic

Within the day, Miranda is able to gain the approvals needed for surgery. It all happens in a blur. One moment there’s a nurse explaining that they’ll be preparing her within the next hour, then in the blink of an eye, she is being wheeled out of her room for the first time since she was put in there. 

The fluorescent lights in the hall are blinding and there is a part of her waiting to hear the shuddering bass that accompanied the bright flashes in her nightmares. Her pulse quickens and she struggles to breathe. Adrenaline finds its way into her veins and she is possessed by the urge to run out of the building as fast as she can. But she is trapped in her charred body.

By the time she’s wheeled into the theatre, there is sweat dripping from her brow and saturating her gown. Her jaw hurts from grinding her teeth so hard and her eyes dart about the white room.

“Shepard, are you okay?” The face of Miranda Lawson peers over the side of her bed. Her hair is pulled back and hidden under a net, a mask hangs from her neck and her familiar uniform has been replaced with a green gown. She appears to be genuinely concerned. “You can take it easy, Commander,” she coos, “I don’t make mistakes.”

There’s a shuffling beside her, then a click. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees the anaesthetist turn the knob on the drip connected to her arm. She can see the fluid making it’s way towards her, and her heart leaps into her throat. She’s not ready. No. 

She struggles, but the heavy fluid makes her arm heavy. The all too familiar sensation of tears sting her eyes and she clenches them shut. She feels the fluid crawl up her neck, and when it snakes further up she slumps into the bed.

Coming to is a twisting and nauseating process. Blinking awake, the world churns in her vision and her empty stomach moves out of pity. Everything is so bright, as if someone turned the contrast up. It burns the backs of her eyes. If her arms weren’t seemingly made of lead, she’d reach a hand up to shield her eyes.

She swallows the bad taste in her mouth and tries blinking more in hopes her dry eyes will adjust. Her chest feels numb.

“You’re awake.” She tries to sit up but her muscles are too weak. 

The Asari doctor who visits her infrequently approaches from the peripheral depths of the blinding room. “We need to monitor you before moving you back to your room.” Her footsteps are loud on the tile floor. The doctor places a plastic cup of water on a stand beside the bed. She leans her arm on the bed’s metal rung. “How are you feeling, Shepard?”

She stares lazily at the alien and blinks slowly. “I’m,” she swallows again, “dizzy.”

“You will be dizzy a little while longer, I’m afraid. You will sleep off most of the grogginess,” she hums quietly. She reaches for the plastic cup. “Do you think you’re able to drink?”

“Please,” she rasps. She hasn’t eaten or drank anything since she awoke in the rubble. An IV has kept her hydrated. Carefully, the doctor brings the cup to her patient’s chapped lips. She pours it slowly as not to spill it down her chin.

All too quickly, the water is gone. She tries to lick what she can from the lip of the cup, but there isn’t much to be found. She feels pathetic.

“That’s all I can give you right now, Shepard,” the Asari bows her head apologetically, “I’m sorry.” Taking a serviette from the bedside, she dabs it around her mouth. “Ms. Lawson did very well. Most of your cybernetics have been repaired and are functional. You’ll begin to notice the difference once the anaesthetic passes through your system.”

“How long will that take?” she asks too quickly.

“At least a solar day, maybe two.” Fidgeting, the Asari glances over to the other side of the room. There must be someone else here. “Listen, Shepard. There will be people who will want to speak to you about what’s happened. You played a key part in this war, and they expect you to be able to answer their questions.”

“But I barely know my own name,” she exclaims. There’s a tickle in her throat and she coughs dryly. “How can I be of any help to them?”

“Surely they can’t expect many, if any, answers from her?” Miranda’s voice rings from somewhere nearby. She tries to look over her shoulder to see her, but only captures a glimpse of her hair.

“I know.” The Asari shrinks into herself, and plays with her fingers. “I’ve been delaying them the best I can, but they will want to see you once you’ve recovered from this procedure.” She tugs at the hems of her sleeve, but forces herself to stop. “It is unreasonable to believe you to have all of the answers while you’re still recovering.”

A hazy fury kindles in her gullet and she glares at the doctor. “But I should.” Her vision is no longer turning and is able to hold the alien’s gaze. Fisting the sheets in her hands, she moves to reposition herself more upright but fails.

“You need to give yourself time, Commander,” Miranda comments from the peripheral.

“Yes. Be patient with yourself,” the doctor concurs. Taking the empty cup, she stands and pats her hand in a kind gesture. “Rest. We will speak soon.”

With surprising reflexes she grabs the blue wrist before the doctor pulls away entirely. “Why are you being so kind to me, considering last time we spoke.” Her sad eyes and gentle voice chime a bell that won’t stop ringing. “Who are you?”

“I’m Doctor T’Soni.” She slips her cool skin from her grasp and paces around to the foot of the bed. Her white uniform is different from the other staff who have tended to her, but it’s still professional. “Now please, rest.”


	7. Admiral

Lucidity made everything worse.

Instead of dull throbbing, she could feel each and every nerve that had been singed or crushed. It was like balls of needles and nails were being rolled all over her body, inside and out. Chunks of her skin felt like it was still smouldering. The stitches from her recent surgery were numb, thankfully.

She could now feel her fingertips vividly. She could feel the press of her thighs together as she lay there uncomfortably. Her spine ached from the solid mattress and lack of exercise. She still couldn’t feel some parts of her though, like her leg.

She had been roused a short time ago by the nurse. From what she could understand, two Admirals from the Alliance were coming to see her, whether she was ready or not.

A pounding headache had formed behind her right eye. She wasn’t sure if it was from the stress or a side effect of the anaesthetic. Still bed bound, she attempts to roll onto her side but the drip in her arm prevents it.

Without so little as a courtesy knock, the door bursts open. Two wrinkled men with sullen eyes and deep-set frowns march in. Their decorated uniforms reflect a mass of medals and gold stripes. One of the men with hair as white snow freezes when he spies her prone body connected to monitors and drips. His shoulders sag and his hard expression falls. He is quick to compose himself.

“Commander Shepard. You’re a sight for sore eyes, soldier,” with a sigh of relief he salutes once he approaches her bed. The two of them clasp their hands behind their backs. “I didn’t believe the news when I heard it.”

“Those who have heard it still don’t,” the other Admiral comments stiffly, struggling to really believe it himself. They’re both quite old, but his hair is more grey than white and his skin is not as bleached.

She stares at the two men. She recognises their stripes; the Alliance is too ingrained in her to ever not recognise rank. She’s aware that she does know these men, but the names escape her raspy tongue. She remembers a surprise inspection of her ship, and bits of pieces of many missions detailed to her over the years. Squinting, she frowns. “Sirs.” She attempts a salute.

“We’ve been informed that you have some lapses in your memory, Commander. This is Admiral Mikhailovich,” the white-haired man gestures towards his counterpart. “And I’m Admiral Hackett.”

Blinking, she takes in their names. Yes, she remembered speaking regularly with Hackett although she couldn’t recall the entire contents of their exchanges. She nods, unsure of what to say.

“We came in hopes you might be able to shed some light on what happened when you reached the beam,” Admiral Mikhailovich cuts to the chase with a calculated nod. He releases his hands only to clasp them in front of him and shifts his weight between this feet. “There are a lot of things that happened that we hope you can explain to us.”

“I’m sorry, but you’ve come in vain,” she replies darkly. Her chin presses to her chest and she watches the rise and fall as she counts her breaths. The migraine blossoms in her skull. “I don’t remember most things.”

“Surely there must be something!” Mikhailovich struggles to restrain his exasperation. The stress of the war and fallout is clear in his face and tone. Hackett shoots him a leveled frown.

“Shepard, we understand this is a difficult time for you, but if there’s _any_ knowledge you can pass on,” Hackett pauses and brushes some soot from his sleeve. “We’d greatly appreciate it.”

The cardiac monitor’s boring tempo spikes. “A “difficult time”? You call this “ _difficult_ ”?” Her migraine flares and makes her eyes squint to avoid the brilliant stars twinkling around the room. 

“You were there in the thick of it. Any intelligence you hold from us could get your Court Martialed.” With his arms crossed against his chest, Mikhailovich begins to pace the room while ignoring her outburst. “We need to know the Reaper threat is over, we can’t keep running on assumptions, Shepard! We look over our shoulders every second waiting for them to rise from the ashes.”

“Sir, I can hardly tell you the date let alone my military history,” she snarls, “I can’t count the days, yet here you two are grilling me on what I know about this war.” Her cramped shoulder seizes with the tension of her anger.

Admiral Hackett takes a calming breath. “Yes, we understand from what Ms. Lawson and Doctor T’Soni have said, that there are lapses in your memory,” he straightens his posture. “But we have to ask anyway, Shepard.”

Lying there, her muscles twitch and burn. It was satisfying to be so angry. “Well how about you don’t threaten me with Court Martialing and let me fucking recover, _sirs_.” The slight widening of Hackett’s eyes brings a drop of pleasure. “I am being nagged by everyone here to rest whether I understand it or not, yet here you are.”

Admiral Mikhailovich stamps down the heel of his boot and his face tints red. “You will remember your rank, soldier!” His fists clench and he doesn’t know what to do with them, so he adjusts himself between crossing and uncrossing his arms. His frown digs ravines into his withered face.

Hackett lifts a dismissive hand. “No, she’s done a lot for the Alliance,” he concedes, “for humanity, and all of the galaxy, Admiral.” Coming to stand closer beside her bed, he looks down his sharp nose at her with a sympathetic quirk in his brow.

For a brief moment, she considers grabbing him by the collar and screaming at him for reasons she can’t quite pinpoint. There is the distinct taste of bitter resent in her mouth from almost unachievable expectations and too many owed favours. She trusted her gut but without context she was powerless.

Removing his hat, Hackett clasps it in his hands in front of him. His voice is gentle, careful not to stumble. “Can you brief me on the final orders you issued to the _Normandy’s_ crew, Shepard?”

Her frustration fizzles with the Admiral’s change of tone. She turns away from him to stare blankly at where her feet should be, hidden under a mass of sheets and blankets, not that she could see or feel them. Her mind returns to the warzone and the upturned Mako amidst raining embers and ash. “I called for an evac. One of my party members was injured in the final push,” she says wistfully, as if still in the dream. “I told them to go.”

“Did your Flight Lieutenant indicate where he was taking the ship?” Watching from the sidelines, Mikhailovich smacks his lips with irritation but keeps quiet.

She averts her gaze to try and think. “No, sir,” she huffs. “I had no further correspondence with the _Normandy_ or any of the crew on board.” Playing idly with the pale sheets, she pinches different patterns in the surface. “Do _you_ know where they are, Admiral?”

Hackett shifts uncomfortably when she looks to him questionably. “I’m afraid not, Commander,” he sighs, and she can see how much it disappoints him to admit it. He continues to clench and squeeze his hat and he can’t bear to look at her. “You will be the first to know when we do locate them.”

Admiral Mikhailovich takes in a breath to speak but decides against it and settles on a rigid posture. He taps his heel impatiently and glances about the room. “Should we get going, Admiral Hackett?”

With a nod, Hackett collects himself and returns his cap to his balding head. He draws out the solemn exchange of expressions between him and the soldier before taking a step back and saluting her. “We will be in touch, Shepard.”

“Thank you, sir.” She doesn’t bother to say goodbye to Mikhailovich before the two Admirals take their leave. When they are finally gone, she sinks back into her pillow and counts the beeps on her heart monitor.


	8. Alchera

Upon her request, a copy of the _Normandy’s_ records was delivered to her room. She had hoped that reviewing her ship’s history may help draw lines between the fragments that floated aimlessly through her mind.

Her joints still felt stiff, and whenever the medication wore off she’d be reminded of just how injured she really was. As her cybernetics and implants came online, a new circuit each day, she found her pain relief passing faster and faster. They had to increase her twice-daily doses to four a day to keep up with her metabolism.

She swipes through photos on the glowing datapad which illuminates her dark hospital room. There were photos before the _Normandy’s_ maiden voyage, still in the cold Citadel hangar. A small crowd of Human Alliance and Turian Hierarchy officials and engineers stood around the dock as the crew boarded. She sees Captain David Anderson and she finds a smile tug at her lips. Gesturing on the screen, she zooms in on his face. Yes, she remembered Anderson. Just over his shoulder she recognises her face frozen in time in the background. Her uniform is crisp and her mid-quirk lip juts out in the frame. It was her first time in such an important ship.

She initially had a hard time befriending the pilot, Jeff Moreau, or Joker as he preferred. He had a personality that ruffled the feathers of ranking officials, but not Anderson’s. He appreciated the man’s honesty as she recalled. You could always trust Joker to tell you if a command was stupid, and to remind you he’s the best pilot in the Alliance. His love of the _Normandy_ was astounding. He truly appreciated the ship for what she was; the sublime.

Suddenly she’s awake again and there’s alarms blaring. When did she drift off? The power has been shut off and the emergency generators have been activated, basking her quarters in an ominous red glow. Jumping from her bed, she searches for her gear which she finds thrown over her desk. She strips down her civvies and pulls the undersuit on. Stumbling, she swings around to locate her gloves and boots. While she buckles on her armour, she kicks her boots out from under the bed’s frame. In her haste she fumbles the fasteners and has to stop herself to breathe.

“Presley, what’s going on?” she huffs into the communicator. She tightens the straps on her hear. Where’s her helmet?

“Commander, this is Joker,” his voice crackles through the speaker. “The _Normandy_ is under attack.”

Slamming her fist onto the door’s sensor, she leaps through before it entirely finishes opening. “Has the evacuation order been issued?” There’s no response. When she looks around the hall, she sees it entirely empty. Half-eaten meals are on the floor, having been jolted from their places from the initial impact. She can hear whistling; there must be a hole somewhere in the hull. She needs to find her helmet.

The elevator has become lodged somewhere in the lower decks, she realises when she peers down the shaft. Pressing her back against the lodged door, she pushes with all her might in hopes of making a wider entry. At shifts a little. She activates her Omnitool and increases its brightness to use as a torch to peer inside. 

A few metres down the light seems to flatten out. Most likely the elevator’s top she figures. Sucking in a breath, she leaps down and lands with a hollow thud that shakes where she stands. The alarms are quiet here, and she enjoys the reprieve.

Shining her Omnitool along the walls, she looks for a slit to indicate a closed door. Once she finds it, she begins clawing at the length of it with one hand in hopes of finding a flaw in the surface to grip, but the tips of her gloves keep slipping and scraping the metal. She shuts off her Omnitool and begins raking at the little slit in the black void. Her communicator’s channel opens for an incoming transmission but all she receives is static.

With a violent jolt, she’s thrown into the opposite wall as the _Normandy_ veers one way or another. “Joker, come in,” she shouts into her communicator. “Joker, do you read me?” As the ship rights itself, she slips onto her hands and knees on the floor. She quickly uses her Omnitool to change the channel. “Liara, are you there?”

Rising to her feet, she rolls her shoulders and approaches the shut door again. Running her hand along the surface to find the break where the two sides meet, she takes a step back. “Liara, come in.” She hesitates for a moment in hopes of hearing a reply.

Nothing.

Squaring her shoulders, she reaches her palms out towards the wall. Activating her biotics, she forces the energy to form in her hands then rush down her arms before sweeping over the entirety of her body. Clenching her fists, she brings an arm up to shield her face, the other with her palm facing forward to dispense the impact, then unleashes a Charge.

The recoil knocks her back a few steps and she almost loses her footing on a piece of debris.

The alarms are at full volume again. Her eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden light, and she wobbles out onto the deck. There’s wires hanging from the ceiling, and electrical fires in every corner. Near the second exit on the left, she spies her locker and sprints over to retrieve her helmet. She needs to activate the distress beacon.

She ducks and dodges the live wires to make her way to the beacon down the corridor. Once she reaches it she drops her helmet at her feet and rips off the safety panel to prepare the SOS. A ventilation shaft bursts beside her, steam scalding the side of her face. She shifts to the side and begins the activation sequence.

“Shepard?” 

Done. She scoops up her helmet and pulls it on, sure to activate her airtight seals and oxygen reserves, and turns. “Distress beacon is ready for launch.”

Liara is almost doubled over gasping to catch her breath. Noticing Shepard’s, she dons her own helmet and swallows dryly. “Will the Alliance get here in time?” she tempts, desperate for a positive answer. The ship shudders again, and Shepard’s pause brings her no comfort. An explosion rips through the back of the corridor and Liara lurches forward.

Catching her by the waist, she helps Liara regain her balance. She lets her hands linger when she grips her shoulder. “The Alliance won’t abandon us. We just need to hold on.” Swinging around, she grabs a nearby fire extinguisher and sets to work suppressing the new flames that lick at her heels. She gestures for Liara, “get everyone to the escape shuttles.”

When she sees the extinguisher tossed at her, Liara catches it with finesse. “Joker’s still in the cockpit,” she breathes, pulling the pin and aiming. She glances over her shoulder. “He won’t evacuate.” A pause. “I’m not leaving either.”

Another chunk of wires fall from the ceiling, scattering embers and debris. “I need you to get the crew onto the evac shuttles,” she drops her extinguisher and steps a few paces back, desperately trying to orientate herself in the hot surrounds. With all this damage it was hard to tell which way was which. She stumbles towards Liara and reaches for her arm. “I’ll take care of Joker.”

The ship’s gravity fluctuates, and she grips a pylon for support. She levers herself forwards and grabs the next. Liara calls her name, but she shakes her head. “Liara, go.” She peeps over her shoulder. “Now.” She watches her stand there, hesitant to move. 

Liara moves to reach out for her, but stops herself. “Aye, aye,” she nods.

After activating the sprinklers she makes her way to the maintenance ladders. Scaling the rungs, she makes her way to the main deck. She punches out the cover and hauls herself onto the deck. Her suit immediately starts initiating warnings for outside hazards and activates her mag boots. In the direction of the cockpit the whole ceiling of the CIC is missing and the planet of Alchera is all one can see beyond what’s left of the walls. Barriers have been erected to prevent the vacuum of space from taking whatever it may please, but there is no oxygen left on the ship. 

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is SSV _Normandy_.” As Joker radios through all open channels, she makes her way towards the gaping chunk seemingly bitten from the ship. 

She steps through the threshold and suddenly all the alarms and sirens are gone. All she can hear are her own breaths; steady and calculated. Parts of the ship float nearby and she bumps into a piece of the wall. She can’t see any sign of what caused all this damage and for that she’s thankful.

Spying Joker just beyond her, she pushes herself towards him. The cockpit is blanketed in darkness save for the orange emergency lights. “Come on Joker,” she calls, latching onto his seat. “We have to get out of here!”

His hands are a flurry as he presses buttons and pulls levers. “No!” he says defiantly with a stubborn shake of his head. His cap is gone with an emergency ventilator secured around his head in it’s place. “I won’t abandon the _Normandy_ ,” he cries, “I can still save her!”

She shoves his chair in an attempt to break the hold it has on Joker. “The _Normandy’s_ lost,” she breathes and her stomach sinks, “going down with the ship won’t change that.” She leans in, determined to glare at him through her visor.

Joker stares at the panels before him. His hand twitches with determination and frustration, but he ultimately sighs in defeat. “Yeah,” he mumbles as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Okay… Help me up.” He freezes when he spots movement in the reflection of his front screen. “They’re coming around for another attack!”

She rushes towards the barrier but stops dead in her tracks and stares in horror as the alien ship powers it’s weapon. Never had she seen anything like it. The beast appeared to be a revolting mix of technology and organic; the exterior was lumpy and smeared across clearly metal structures. She shields her face and cringes as the beam hits the ground in front of her and burns straight through.

In a wild panic, she scrambles back towards the pilot’s seat and grabs Joker’s arm in a vice. “Ow, watch the arm!” 

There’s no time for carefulness. They have to get off this ship. _Now_. 

Throwing his arm over her shoulders, she takes his weight and whisks him towards the cockpit’s lifepod. Explosions rattle the ground and cables spark all around them. As soon as the seals open, she all but throws Joker in. Shaking with adrenaline, he angles himself in uneasily and falls into the nearest seat.

She has one foot in, but can’t keep herself from watching in horror as the rest of the _Normandy_ is ripped from where they stand. Like a bludgeoned and undesired toy, the half is cast away carelessly towards Alchera. Her crew…

A flurry of explosions rock the pod, and she is thrown back against the floor. 

She scrambles for a grip as the gravity fails. Clinging to what’s left of the hull, she hauls herself out of the way as the laser cuts through between her and her escape.

“Commander!” she hears Joker call as she squints her eyes in an attempt to hide from the blinding light. She shields herself behind the failing support. 

Panicking, she looks for a way out. But she knows better.

“Shepard!” Joker calls. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she hits the remote ignition button. 

As her body floats up, she watches the doors seal shut on her friend and the pod promptly jettisoned into space. 

Her fingers slip and she loses her anchor before another explosion wracks the console, throwing her into space.

She tumbles out of the flames with glimpses of the starts and debris nauseatingly churning in her vision. Her mind is a mess as she twists and turns. 

A brilliant flash of yellow blinds her before a burst of flames envelop her and throw her even farther. She reminds herself to breathe slowly, calmly. As long as she’s in her suit, she’s safe. 

She hears something pop behind her, then hissing. 

She looks down and sees the seals in her chest breaching. She claws at the holes bursting all over her suit and the cold empty air rushing in. She realises she’s suffocating. 

Madly, she feels around the back of her helmet for the emergency trigger to stem the breaches at least around her head. She fumbles blindly as the edges of her vision turn black. 

She tries not to scream as she falls towards the atmosphere.

Ripping herself from the nightmare, she cries out in pain. She can’t breathe. She hurts all over. 

She writhes and gasps, tangled in her sheets, clawing at her neck and head. Her elbow knocks the bar bordering her bed to prevent her from falling out and she yelps in pain. 

Can’t get enough oxygen. The tube supplying her mask has been knocked off.

She lurches to the side and knocks the bar again and it gives out.

In a mangled heap, she falls forward onto the floor screaming. Her drip rips from her arm and her mask gets caught on the frame’s hinge on her way down, yanking her neck sharply. The floor feels almost as cold as deep space. Her heart leaps into her throat and she wretches between her howls.

There’s a slam of a door and a panicked shout before her arms are suddenly as heavy as lead. She bawls into the floor and kicks with all her might. She may be weak from what she can feel but her cybernetics still allow her a lot of strength. Her foot collides with something, and someone wails in pain. Someone tries to hush her. 

“Shepard!”

“ _Sedar ella!_ ” She feels her thighs pressed into the cold tile and rears her head back to shriek. 

“ _Houd haar nog steeds_.” A sharp prick into her shoulder, but she keeps fighting. Her eyelids immediately begin to droop, she gasps for air. Saliva drips from her raspy mouth, and she tries to squirm. Her head begins to spin. Then everything goes dark.


	9. Dread

The gentle caress of her hair greets her as she awakens. Her vision is blurry; a side effect of the sedative administered. How long was she out for? Her eyes drift shut again.

“Are you awake, Shepard?” she hears a voice as soft as the touch on her head. Yawning lazily, she snuggles deeper into her pillow and hums a groggy note. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” A stroke of her cheek. “What made you so scared the other day?”

She leans into the touch and relishes in the warmth. It’s as if she’s floating on soft white clouds. Why had she been so scared? How could she possibly have been anything beyond content if she felt like this?

“I brought you the _Normandy_ records like you had asked,” the familiar voice croons. “It was still opened to the photo of you and Anderson boarding for her maiden voyage.”

She tries to open her eyes again. It takes a few blinks, but she finds some clarity when she sees those deep blue eyes brimming with tenderness. It is warm and bright in here. Weakly, she lifts her hand to touch the face beside her. “You were there,” she rasps. “When she went down.” Her finger graces a cheek.

“Goddess,” she gasps. “Yes, yes I was.”

Squinting, she tries with all her might to focus her vision. Yes, she was there. The one who had once been the love of her life. She tries again to properly touch her face. “Liara,” she mumbles as the back of her hand grazes freckled blue cheeks.

“You,” Liara’s eyes well with tears. “You remember me?” She quickly captures the hand caressing her cheek and clasps it firmly in hers. She continues to stroke her hair and gaze into her face.

She nods as eagerly as she can as her head begins to pound. “Yes, I remember-” 

A blossom of pain of a migraine hits her like a freighter. She clutches a fist to her clenched eyelids then pinches her brow. Groaning, she fidgets in an attempt to get more comfortable. She bumps her oxygen mask while moving, but is sure to adjust it back. Rolling her neck, she tries to look at Liara again; desperate for her comfort.

But no one’s there.

She’s suddenly more alert; startled by the sudden absence. Shifting herself to try and prop her shoulders up, she realises she’s alone. The wheeze of her oxygen tank and beep of her cardiac monitor are the only noises in the room. The lights have been switched off, and the door is ajar. From what she can see of the hallway, that’s also dark. 

A sense of dread grows in her gut. 

“Liara?” She looks for her request bell. “Miranda?” She’s scared to be left on her own, and it embarrasses her to admit it to herself. She’s a shell of her former self and it’s pathetic. She clenches her eyes shut to hide from her migraine. When will she be able to leave this wretched Hell? Once she’s back on the _Normandy_ , she can get back to business and pretend this never happened.

She blindly pats down the sheets in search of her buzzer while her head throbs a bitter tempo. Then she retraces her path and feels around again. This time she cracks her eyes open much to her headaches chagrin. Her teeth grind in an attempt to drown out the pain. She struggles to watch her hands while she looks.

She freezes when she notices it.

As still as she can possibly be, she holds her breath. Where is the tips of her ring and middle fingers? A whole knuckle is missing from her pinky. Why is it not there? How is she only noticing this now? There’s an angry red graze spread across what's left of her digits and she turns her hand to check her palm which is raw and blackened in places. She lifts her right hand to inspect it; unlike the left, her fingers are entirely intact but there are squares of skin stitched on.

The migraine trickles down her neck like a waterfall of acid and feeds her hollow, anxious stomach.

She runs the numb pads of her fingertips up her forearms. She can only just feel the fine dusting of hairs, but it comforts her. There she finds her new and old scars and traces them over and over.

Now she inspects her head. She starts by removing her breathing mask and placing her palms on her face and the brief darkness nurses her pounding skull. Yes, her nose is still there although she’s found a break which has been righted. Her cheeks are scratched and her tips grace three sets of stitches around her jaw and mouth. Her eyelashes are short and there’s patches of stubble growing in the blank spots where her eyebrows ought to be. Burns, she determines. She slips her oxygen mask back on.

There is a sore cut on her forehead, the rest of the surface rough and ragged. When she brings her fingers up, she feels blunt hairs where her locks once were. Her head had been shaved. She pulls in her lip and bites it. Breathe, she reminds herself.

She must look like a mangled wreck much like the _Normandy_ left on Alchera. She must be hideous.

Sinking back under the sheets, she pulls the covers and blankets up to her neck. Out of sympathy for the staff she yanks the sheets higher and conceals her face. She wonders if she would recognise herself if someone were to bring her a mirror and show her her reflection.

The lover she remembers from the beam. Would he recognise her? Would he want her? She wonders if Liara’s tenderness was a front to hide her disappointment in how broken she was. She wipes the tears from the corners of her eyes. How could she be of any use to anyone now? She was shredded and torn, inside and out. If she wasn’t doped up, she was in agonising pain that she could not see the end of. The prickling in her stomach begins as the medication wears off, again. 

When her eyes are shut, she sees butchered bodies of every race scattered in a dark hull. This was becoming a regular occurrence. Sometimes she could see flashes of this place when she blinked. The vision is so vivid she can almost smell the rotting corpses. 

She hopes she doesn’t wake up.


	10. The Price of Ignorance

“When do you think we should begin her therapy?” Miranda stands just outside the door, a glimpse of her old uniform peers through the gap.

“Her psychological health should be our priority.” Liara glances in. 

She keeps her eyes shut so they don’t realise she’s awake and continues to eavesdrop. In the blackness of her mind there are contorted faces with empty sockets and twisted mouths. It takes all her strength to keep her heartbeat steady.

“You can’t have one without the other. Her physical and mental health must be addressed concurrently.” Her uniform rustles as Miranda shifts her weight to cock one hip and peers down the corridor. 

“We can’t keep her a secret forever. We need to inform the crew,” Miranda frowns as she crosses her arms. She’s careful to keep her voice low.

“No,” Liara blurts out instantly. “I don’t want them to see her like this,” she says desperately, “she barely knows who _you_ are, Miranda. They’ll want to come see her, and it will break them and her if she can’t remember.”

Miranda taps a finger on her arm impatiently. “The longer you hide her from them, the more they’ll resent you when they find out,” she warns.

“I don’t care. This is for the best.”

A sigh. “Will you at least tell Garrus?”

“Goddess, no,” Liara spits, “it will tear him apart if she doesn’t respond to him.” 

Miranda waves a dismissive hand. “Fine, have it your way,” she grunts. “Don’t blame me when everyone comes to your door with pitchforks and torches.”

“An ancient human reference to witch hunting.” Liara rolls her eyes and pinches her brow. A sigh racks her agile form. “Yes, very fitting.”

There is shuffling in the awkward silence, then the fading echo of heels on the linoleum floor. Sweat is beading on her brow as she tries to ignore the nightmares flashing behind her eyelids.

An urge in the deep recesses of her mind tells her to ask for another dose of the pain killers. She isn’t due for more for a few hours.

Hinges whine and the door is shut with a gentle click. “I know you’re awake, Shepard.”

Rolling her eyes open, she watches Liara like a wild animal. Suddenly her nightmares behind her eyelids seize her and her breathing hastens. A furious twitch seizes her cheek and she presses it into the pillow. Her fingers try to grip an invisible gun. 

She’s wound up. She’s been still for too long. Her cybernetics may not be entirely online, but she is going stir crazy trapped in this bed with her traumatised mind for hours trying to connect the dots.

“I want to get out of this room,” she demands with a shuddering tone.

“You haven’t recovered enough to walk,” Liara says while averting her eyes. She comes to stand beside the bed and runs her gloved fingers on the frame caging her friend. “How are you feeling?”

She ignores her question. “Then get me some crutches or a wheelchair,” she bargains. She needs to see more than four blank walls. She needs to see the world again, to feel the grass and wind herself. It’s almost as if she were living on the ships again like she did as a child.

Liara opens her mouth to speak but decides against it. She observes the wounded soldier in her care and shakes her head in defeat. “I will get you a wheelchair, but Shepard, I-” She waves her hand dismissively. “Nevermind. I’ll be right back.”

Finally! She was going to be out of this empty prison. Eager to prove Liara wrong, she begins to get herself upright. The fires in her arms burn as she shifts her weight to sit herself upright and her shoulders prickle with invisible needles and nails. She braves removing her oxygen mask and reaches over to sit it carefully on the table beside her bed where a vase of flowers stands alone and wilting.

Sitting upright is the most liberating sensation she’s experienced since she woke up in the Hell that seemed so far away from her now.

“Shepard, _please_ , be careful,” Liara chastises once she returns. Shaking her head in exasperation, she wheels the chair to the side of the bed and puts the brakes on it. Dutifully, she brings the drip around and affixes it to the chair and sets up a portable breathing apparatus. “You’ll need you mask. The air is not very clean,” she explains once she realises she’s being watched.

Unlocking the bars, Liara lowers one of the safety guards on the bed. “Shepard, I need you to stay calm.” She reaches out to touch her but hesitates.

“Why?” There is an anxious knot pulled in her gullet and she doesn’t understand.

Liara forces herself to swallow the fear in her throat and reaches for the blankets and bedsheets to pull them back. She’s careful not to bump the burnt, grafted, and stitched skin. “Moving will be painful.” 

When the covers are removed she’s suddenly reminded of the battlefield again. 

There is a gnarled mess at the base of her knee where the pylon fell. She can make out the fine stitches and pieces of grafted skin. There are raw patches of grazes and burns that she can’t feel. She tries to wiggle the toes that have been long absent. 

Somehow she knew this already, but to see it was another thing.

She can feel her cold fingers when she traces the cuts and scratches on her other leg. There are sections that are pinker than others from where her melted suit had to be cut from her. Some of the hairs have grown back but there are areas left barren. Seeing the injuries made the dull pain ignite into a growing fury.

She’ll compartmentalise this and grieve for her loss of mobility when her room grows dark and the only company is the illusion of breaths of her oxygen tank.

“Get me into the chair,” she mumbles and her hands shiver.

Liara takes her arm and threads it over her shoulders. With the aide of her biotics, she hoists the extra weight of cybernetics and physical enhancements. The pair awkwardly shift and stumble around the wheelchair.

She reaches desperately for one of the armrests and falls painfully into the seat. A sharp gasp of air escapes her clenched teeth and she curls into herself with a groan. A white hot pain shoots from where her shoulder collided and bites down her arm and radiates through her chest. She swats Liara’s fussing hands away and forces herself to sit properly. She is better than this. She is not dependent on her.

Liara watches her with damp eyes but has to look away. She busies herself with unhooking and reattaching the various devices tracking her friend’s health. It takes all her strength to not drop her tasks and sooth the shorn hair and broken skin sitting beside her. To see Shepard so debilitated was like seeing a Goddess bound and broken; tethered to the mortal realm and spat upon. She was her source of confidence and strength through all these trying times, and to see that idol shot from her artful pedestal in one fell swoop shook her in ways she’d never speak of.

Taking the pink woolen blanket from the bed, Liara folds it and places it across the soldier’s lap. She tells herself it’s to keep her warm, but there is a sense of dignity she is compelled to preserve for both their sakes. She tries to ignore the tremble in the lip and the fisted hands gripping the armrests. She tries to ignore the clear pain and grief before her.

Liara unlocks the breaks on the front wheels before hesitantly coming up behind the chair. She releases the locks on the hind wheels and takes the handles slowly. The situation feels so alien to her, so _wrong_. She flicks the door open and pushes Shepard through.

The corridor is bright and smells as sterile as the fluorescent lights that beam down from the concrete ceiling. Some staff are passing through the space and they all try not to stare. Most aren’t successful.

“Where are we?” She asks, glancing over her shoulder as she’s wheeled slowly down the hall.

“A military bunker,” Liara responds sharply, sure to level a threatening glare at any nurse or doctor who’s wondering eyes stray too far. She will not allow idle gossip to be spread. This is a secret that must stay within this base.

She notices the clipped tone and shivers running down the spines of the people around her. It was bizarre seeing so many faces after only seeing maybe two or three, including Liara and Miranda’s, since she’s been here. Almost everyone she sees is human save for a Turian nurse, and two Asari that walk in the opposite direction. She doesn’t understand what anyone is saying even though she can hear their whispering.

She tucks her blanket tighter around the outsides of her thighs and returns to gripping the plush armrests. “When will my translator be fixed?”

They take a left into another hall that looks the exact same sans a different order of doors opened and closed. “Secondary and tertiary devices won’t be brought online until your cybernetic repairs are complete,” Liara says quietly. Leaning in closer to her ear, she adds, “the longer we leave it, the better.”

She tilts her head in the direction of the whispers. “Why?”

“Please, Shepard,” Liara urges, “trust me.”

Staring at the cold hands in her lap, she taps her fingertips together in endless patterns. Left index to right thumb, then her index, then middle, then ring, then pinky, and back. Liara is deliberately keeping her in the dark. 

They enter an elevator, but she doesn’t see what level they’re on or where they’re going to. Right index to left thumb, index, what’s left of her middle, ring, and pinky, then back. Why is Liara keeping so many secrets? Right thumb to left index knuckle, middle, ring, pinky, and back.

A hum and the lift begins to move. Left thumb to right index knuckle, middle, ring, pinky, and back. She recalls something about information brokering; dangerous lies and truths. 

The lights flash rhythmically as they transcend the floors and it is somewhat soothing if not for the uneasy atmosphere. “Why did Miranda want you to specifically tell Garrus I’m here?” She almost has the nerve to slap her palms over her mouth, annoyed that the question slipped from her loose tongue while her mind was distracted.

“I’m not sure, Shepard. Why do you think?” Liara asks nonchalantly, too distantly. Her pokerface is too severe and gives away her game. The awkwardly quiet elevator ride suddenly drowns in the thick air. Her knuckles whiten as she clenches the wheelchair’s handles.

She fans her fingers out and observes the new kinks in some of her digits. “Don’t be coy with me,” she whispers in a hushed fury. “I heard your whole conversation.” There is an unspoken threat that lingers in her breath, and Liara knows.

The elevator stops, a bell chimes and the doors open to a visitors wing. 

“The fact you need to ask me is reason enough, I believe,” the Asari sighs, pushing the chair out into the warm room. They are the only people here. White couches and chairs lay vacant, tables empty.

She knows she isn’t going to get the answer she wants and drops the topic for now. The walls are lined with big windows that reach from ceiling to floor. A gorgeous green landscape can be seen from every corner with tall trees and rich blue skies. “Those are projections, aren’t they?”

“Yes. The other patients find it reassuring and calming.” Coming towards a wide door, also windowed, Liara pulls out a pass and holds it to the glowing orange lock beside it. The hologram spins as it interprets the data then opens into a panel. 

“It’s considered safer for their rehabilitation if staff maintain that the war didn’t happen at this point.” Pressing a sequence of numbers there is a hum triggered as the windows power down and fade to a frosted white. “Once they are more stable, patients are informed of current events and status of their loved ones.” 

Liara hits another button and the glass fades to its natural translucent state. Immediately before them just beyond the door is a grey concrete footpath leading down an ash-filled courtyard. What once would’ve been healthy hedges have withered or burnt away, and offer a patchy glimpse through to the rubble between them and the protective walls surrounding the facility. Unhinging the mask from where she hooked it on the drip, Liara passes it and turns the tank on.

With trembling hands, she takes the mask and pulls it over her head, much to her shoulder’s protest. The sky is grey outside, but not as black as it was before the beam. The raining embers have been replaced by toxic and benign soot, lazing floating from the heavens.

The air outside is chilling. She is quick to tug the folded blanket up and hug it to her chest. There is little noise beyond the distant call of what few birds are left and the wind carrying rubbish and litter across the ground. Was this Earth?

For some reason, she expected gunfire. The lack of it is just as threatening, even more so, if it were present. She misses the heavy weight of her weapons. A dull throbbing in her skull reminds her biotic implants are still dysfunctional. Even though her companion is a skilled biotic specialist, she feels exposed like a raw nerve. She isn’t safe, her mind whispers over and over.

The clack of her chair’s wheels on the cracked concrete fills the deafening silence, along with Liara’s delicate footfalls. She directs them towards a massive gate but stops before it. It is a giant slab with barbed wire at the top and reaches all around the medical bunker. “This is a small section of the larger base,” Liara explains. “There are weapons, aircraft, and space faring facilities beyond this gate, along with the refugees in what shelter we can afford them.”

She quivers in the shadow cast by the barricade and suddenly her room seemed like a sanctuary in comparison. The four white walls she hated so much shielded her in her ignorance which she knew she’d never afford now. She feels privileged to not be kept in the dark, but regrets the price of this knowledge and she hugs the blanket tighter.


	11. Island

She relishes in the isolation of her room. Waking slowly to the familiar space, she blinks away the lingering haze of her sleep. It was deep and dreamless, she didn't feel well rested but the black voids between her waking hours were considered a gift. If she dreamt, it was a mass of violent and confusing visions flashing before her. She can't escape her constant discomfort when she dreams.

Her back aches from lying for too long. Her healing burns and grafts sting and the shift of her covers aggravates the raw flesh. She's lost much of her fine motor control; her fingers are clumsy as she fumbles to reach for her buzzer. She knocks the vase on her nightstand and it wobbles menacingly and her heart jumps into her throat.

Tugging the cord, she rolls back against her pillow and holds the buzzer over her belly, squinting at the buttons. The act of moving ignites burning fires throughout her healing muscles and tendons. A scar left by Ms. Lawson beginning from between her breasts that reaches to her naval throbs. Her hands shake while she fumbles for the button.

A turian nurse responds to her alarm promptly. “ _Hoe kan ek jou help?_ ”

Through the indiscernible syllables and hums, she makes out the last word. She thinks. “I need my painkillers,” she murmurs, buried in her covers. “Please.”

The board creature approaches her bed to review the datapad clipped to the foot of it. They swipe through the interface before emitting a disapproving purr that drops. “ _Jy is nie as gevolg van 'n ander dosis nie. Jy sal meer later het._ ”

“ _Please_ ,” she repeats with a dry tongue. She doesn’t need to speak their language to understand the gesture in their voice. “I, my head is pounding. I hurt all over.”

A shake of the head. “ _Ek kan nie_ ,” they respond quietly, placing the datapad back where it belongs. “ _Ek is jammer._ ”

Tingling sensations prickle up her spine and in her fingers that clench tightly to her buzzer. Her lips pull into a thin line and she tries not to shake. She refuses to beg. She _will not_ sink lower than she already has.

“Do you know what happened to the _Normandy_?” she asks quickly before the door is shut on her once more.

The nurse hesitates and stops in the archway, turning to face her. “ _Die Normandië is 'n ruk gelede geleë is. Niemand het hier ander was as Doctor T'Soni_ ,” they respond, their thick voice punctuated with foreign ticks and hums. “ _Ek weet nie hoekom jy my vra. Jy kan nie verstaan wat ek sê._ ”

She watches patiently, trying to discern the sounds. Rolling her head to face the nurse, she stares at them vacantly. She couldn’t tell if there was any grief in their tone, and considers it a good sign. “Thank you,” she mumbles.

“ _Jy is welkom._ ” They move to close the door as they leave but stop again. “ _Ek sal na die dokter oor gee jou meer pynstillers praat._ ”

Then, she is alone again. She finds no salvation in the surroundings she has memorised every crack and discolouration of. Desperate to forget about the pain, she occupies herself by tracing the cool metal bars protecting her from falling onto the floor again.

A flash and she recalls the suffocation above Alchera and her tumbling fit on the ground.

She grabs onto her oxygen mask and holds it firmly over her nose and mouth. Her mind tries to coax her deep into it’s monstrous depths with the sweet promise of sleep. Images of friends and family blink in her field of vision, disappearing as fast as they appeared. She yearns to close her eyes and hold their faces there.

Her mattress shakes with a deafening rumble. She doesn’t know from where it comes exactly, but a blinding light creeps through every fracture in the walls holding her. Her lungs heave and she tries to shield her face with her weak arms.

“ _Shepard._ ” Warm hands of the freshly dead grip her forearms and try to pull them away. They will drown her in their blood; in her failure. “ _Ons is veilig. Jy is veilig._ ”

“Get off of me!” she thrashes, her cheeks wet with tears. All of her body is on fire, and she can’t escape the melting flames. She crawls into herself and sobs. “Don’t touch me!”

“ _Probeer asseblief om te kalmeer,_ ” the devilish words coo while clawing and scratching her limbs. “ _Laat ek jou help._ ”

With her hands pressed to her face, she digs her fingers in and cringes. She can’t bear to open her eyes in fear of what or who she might see. A smoky haze dusts past her shoulder and a shiver shoots down her spine.

“Screw that,” the mist whispers. “I can hold them off.”

“Shepard-Commander.” She surges to the side, the hum prickling the side of her neck and shoulder. “Do we deserve death?”

The talons find her wrists and she is overwhelmed. She wails as she is revealed to her nightmare; a forest left barren save for black wisps haunting between the trees. Struggling to stand in nothing but her gown, she tries to pull away from the faceless ghosts holding her back. 

“Just don’t make the mistake I did,” someone murmurs into her ear. Pulling her hand free she turns to see who spoke but finds no one. “There’s always another mission. None of them are an excuse to make yourself an island.”

She turns her gaze to the hazy sky. “Shepard.”

Her hair is being soothed back in a gentle caress, but she sees nothing. She shudders and tries to scream but is hushed. “Shepard,” she hears. Her heart is racing, her nerves are on fire, and her chest hurts from gasping and weeping.

“Shepard.” Warm fingers link with hers, a gentle tickle on the back of her hand as a thumb is dusted across her scarred knuckles.

Cold air tickles her nose. A series of clicks are buttons are pressed. “ _Asem te haal_.” 

A sharp pain in her neck. A soothing sensation spreads from the site. It dances through her veins like a slow melody and touches each raw burn throughout her body. Her chest tickles and her stomach grows warm. Her mind calms.

“You’re doing great,” the voice next to her assures, gripping her hand tighter. There is a shift of weight and a fingertip is dragged across her brow kindly.

When she swallows the dryness in her mouth, she opens her eyes. The familiar smile on Liara’s tired face brings her a muted joy and she squeezes their intertwined hands. Her throat hurts too much to try speaking.

“ _Sy is stabiel,_ ” the nurse reports from the other side of her bed. Liara gives them an affirming nod. “ _Hou 'n oog op haar. Bel my as jy my nodig het._ ”

She sees the white uniform disappear from the room and focuses back on the Asari. She wants to speak. Her raw throat insists she does not, and her heavy tongue trips and tangles when she tries to form words.

The gentle fluid flowing through her body eases her wound nerves and sings to her, lulling her to sleep. Liara’s sweet face fades into obscurity.


	12. Empty

She wipes her damp brow, her skin unusually clammy. Rolling onto her side she motions to get onto her hands and knees before coming to stand. Her world wavers a little. She digs her bare heels into the crumbling earth and tries to take in the haunting forest. She remembers the inky black wisps, but if she tries to adjust her focus to see them more clearly, there is a shot of pain behind her eyes. She is cold, standing there in just her hospital gown and a thin robe.

There is music playing in the far off distance. A chilling melody that reminds her of the piano left in her apartment on the Citadel, the one Anderson gifted to her.

“Kalahira, mistress of inscrutable deaths, I ask forgiveness.”

She pivots around to see who’s speaking. Beyond her reach, she sees a small boy in a white jacket. Her stomach twists and the distinct taste of bile is in her mouth. She forces herself to take a deep breath and march forward.

The boy is crouched down hugging his knees to his chest with one arm. He is drawing in the leaflitter with a long and gnarled stick. He spares her a glance, but goes directly back to his drawing.

“Shepard.”

The nausea only gets worse the closer she comes to him. She wants to hurt the boy, wants to scream at him. He played her, _they_ played her. Surely she couldn’t have had so many encounters with Reapers and their technology and come out completely unaffected.

How did she know this?

“Shepard-Commander,” the wind sighs, “help us.”

Suddenly there is a red flash that shines up from between the fallen leaves and starts at the boys feet. A horn sounds, and the world goes white for a moment.

When she rubs the sting from her eyes, the boy is no longer there. She glances about frantically in an attempt to spot him. She needed answers. Running her fingers back through her shorn hair, she sees movement beyond the black bushes. Dabbing at her clammy brow once more, she strides slowly.

“Shepard.”

The familiar sight of her armour shocks her. She can see herself; the N7 stripe as clear as day in this murky world, her helmet off and her hair clearly visible. She tries to call out to her, but her voice is drowned out by the whispers of ghosts.

She watches herself weighed down by heavy armour, struggling to wade through the wisps to reach the boy who now cowers beside a tree. He’s trying to hide himself in the leaves, digging into a pile and burying his legs in it desperately. Once she gets too close, he uproots himself and begins running.

From where she’s standing, she can observe the scene before her. The morphing black blots in her minds eye fade to allow her a clear line of sight as she watches Shepard chase after the scared little boy.

She doesn’t understand why Shepard is running so slowly. Yes, the armour is heavy, but it’s as if her boots were as heavy as the sun itself. When the soldier stops cold in her tracks and frowns, she turns her attention back to the boy who runs into the arms of another form of herself. This version of her is wearing her Alliance civvies.

Shepard kneels down to scoop up the boy into a protective hug. Holding him tightly, she presses a kiss to his hair and rocks gently. Once she releases him, she rights his jacket and picks a leaf that was caught in his hood.

The sound of a crackling fire draws her attention, and she realises that a wildfire has sparked beneath the boy’s feet. He holds onto Shepard’s shirt with a tightly fisted hand, a smile on his face. The two watch her other self pleasantly who watches in horror as the flames roar to life with a brilliant, blinding flash.

She wakes with a start, her arms flailing to grasp something secure. Her hand hits the protective bar around her bed painfully and she yelps in pain as the sting swallows her limb. Biting her lip, she hisses the pain away with sharp breaths.

“Please tell me you’re not going to lose it again, Shepard,” Miranda hums boredly from the end of the bed. She types commands into her datapad, not bothering to look up, and shifts her weight onto her left leg, her hip jutting out. “The nurses are scared of you enough as it is.”

She swallows the dryness in her sore throat and licks her parched lips. “I need a drink,” she rasps.

“I’m not surprised.” Tucking the datapad under her arm, Miranda makes her way to the small basin in the corner of the room used for sanitation. She takes a clean up from the dispenser suspended above the skin and pours a cup of water.

“You’re running a fever. ” She takes the cup and drinks from it greedily.

“It seems you can’t catch a break, Shepard.” Miranda goes back to her calculations and notes.

Holding the empty cup out, she wordlessly asks for it to be refilled. Miranda is ignoring her. “Do you know if Thane’s son survived?”

She blinks. “Kolyat was on the Citadel,” Miranda replies nonchalantly, her attention seemingly focused on the orange screen before her. “Not all communications have been restored yet, so I can’t answer that for you. Sorry, Shepard.”

“What about Samara, and Grunt?” Talking itches her throat, and she coughs quietly into her fist.

Miranda flicks to a different page on the datapad. “Assisting with search and rescue, and working with the clean-up crew, respectively.”

“Did Jack and her students do okay?” She waves her cup again. “Do you know if they stayed away from the front-line?”

“They’re fine.”

Why was she being so emotionless? Just because these names were only bearing significance to her now doesn’t warrant such a careless response or inconsiderate tone. Gritting her teeth, she throws the empty polystyrene cup at Miranda in a fit of frustration.

Bouncing off her shoulder, Miranda watches the cup fall to the floor and looks to Shepard with an unsatisfied frown. “If you’d be patient, I was going to get you another drink in a minute.”

“Too bad. You’re not the one lying in a hospital bed with half her identity lost to her and half a leg missing.” A sharp sparking noise fizzles from her temples; her implants screaming from disrepair. “What’s your game, Lawson? What aren’t you telling me?”

“It is the policy of this facility that information that may be difficult for a patient to hear is not to be shared until they are deemed well enough to take the news.” Pinching her brow, Miranda shuts off the datapad and clips it back onto the bed. She kneels down to pick up the cup then straightens herself. “I’m not a good liar when it comes to you, Shepard, I’m afraid.”

“What’s happened to them?”

Miranda refills the drink and returns it. Picking at her gloves, she tries to maintain eye contact but struggles significantly. “I’m sorry, Commander, I can’t disclose this information to you yet.”

“Are they alive at least?”

“I can’t say.” She presses the drink into her hand.

She stares into the clear water but finds no answer there. She downs it quickly then places the cup on her lap. “When will I know, then?”

“When Liara, myself, and the rest of your medical team decide it’s time. I’m sorry, Shepard.” Miranda places a hand over hers, a genuine gesture of comfort. “I’m trying to get you some visitors,” she adds quietly. “I think it’ll do you some good. Give you some peace of mind.”

“Please.” I can’t handle being so alone.


	13. Disgust

She still had no idea of the time or date. There was never a set period when more or less people would pass her door. There was a regular shift between the faces she saw, but there was no way to measure when she saw them.

The wheelchair had been left in her room. It sits vacant beside the basin, gathering dust. It seemed that her little room was slowly gathering belongings; a new vase of flowers from Liara, a small datapad on the nightstand, it’s batteries drained, and now the wheelchair in the corner.

She’s restless. Her legs hurt from disuse. Her muscles are tight and her nerves are wound. She’s twisted and feels like she’s about to snap.

Pushing the sheets back, she peers over the bar on the side of her bed and searches for the latch. Her fingers aren’t as dexterous as they once were, and the cold metal is dulled to the touch. Her growing nails scrape the security lock as she tries to find some grip.

The bars fall away from her right with a loud crack. It takes effort, but she eventually shifts onto her knees; it is an awkward position to sit in without her lower leg. She is shaky, but she is able to reach the pole suspending her drip and wheels it around her bed to the other side.

She swings her legs over, only one set of toes gracing the linoleum floor. She allows herself a moment to close her eyes and take in the sensation. With her big toe, she traces the lines and imperfections in the surface before stealing a glance out the cracked door and bringing her weight onto her foot.

The room is maybe four metres squared. The wheelchair isn’t far for one to walk, but it is when one must crawl. Sinking down to her hands and knees, she is reminded of the constant humiliation her condition brought onto her. She was not a woman to grovel and weep, wracked by unnamed horrors when she woke and slept. Yet here she is.

Scrambling, like she did on the Citadel amongst the butchered and the boned. Being so low to the ground, she could almost smell the hot sand on Akuze once again. The floor didn’t shake though.

She wasted no time hauling herself into the wheelchair, hands quivering. She struggled to move her drip from the portable stand to the hook above the handles on her chair. It is messy, and she nearly drops it a few times, but she makes it work. She kicks the pole back and the wheels skid until they bump the bed frame.

The armrest presses against her chest painfully while she reaches for the front wheel locks. With a strangled moan, she flicks them off and hits the ones under the handles behind her. She stretches her fingers, the tips gingerly brushing the tread of the tyres. Her left struggles to hold the wheel firmly, her missing knuckles to blame. She guides the wheel forwards, careful not to knock her exposed foot.

This would be her only form of mobility in her immediate future. She needed to familiarise herself with it. Be less antagonised by its necessity. 

It’s awkward, but she begins to acclimatise to the use of her shoulders and arms. The motion engages all of her, right down to her tingling pelvis. Her joints click and pop with the effort. She’s scared the fingers she does have left will be eaten and mangled by the spokes.

She spends time making small laps around the room. Practises turning slowly, turning quickly, going backwards, forwards, snaking the tyres around like she would the Mako. She plays with her balance but not anything too risky. She manages to get the front wheels off the ground for a moment when she breaks hard enough. 

It doesn’t take long for fatigue to find her. Her movements increase her metabolism, in turn burning through the painkillers in her system. She’ll regret this soon. It’s embarrassing that so little work can wear her down so quickly. She should be running laps outside, practising her punches and kicks. If you had asked her what her recovery would look like, she’d have suggested something akin to mild physiotherapy and many, many stims.

She was quickly learning that recovery was not a beautiful thing.

It was waking up and regretting it. Often she’d rather the abyss of her medicated sleep; it was dreamless, and dead.

Recovery was acknowledging the shame of having people see you broken and reliant on their care. Recovery was the embarrassment of being unable to look after yourself. It was crying when you’re alone, and screaming at horrors you can see when your eyes are open and shut, but can’t touch.

Today, she wanted to push herself. Now, she regrets what she’s lost.

Her broken and missing fingers run down the side of her thigh where her gown doesn’t cover. She hesitates before touching the gnarled skin that mark the end of her leg; no toes, no nothing. Just a mass where her knee cuts off. It was simply gone. Sometimes it felt like she had an itch under her foot there, or on her ankle, and she’d reach to relieve it to find nothing but her empty sheet.

She uses the heel of her palm to wipe her nose when she sniffs. She tries not to cry.

If they gave her a mirror to stand in front of, she’s afraid she wouldn’t recognise herself. How could she still be her with all these broken and missing parts, inside and out? She still had days with Cerberus and beyond, when she would wake up and wondered if her rebuilt body still allowed her to be her. Was she different now that the parts had been recycled, repaired, and replaced? Her mind struggled to grasp this knowledge. But if you empty a glass and refill it an infinite amount of times, it does not change the fact that the glass is the glass.

She is her, no matter how much of her has been cast out and replaced.

She still feels disgusted by the dirty, pitiful fleshy prison she is forced to live within. 

She wishes to pump it with drugs until she feels she is outside of it, floating, free. She will hurt it, rip it, make it bleed.

She wishes she could break it.


	14. Bystander

“Now, only eighty percent of her primary networks are online,” Liara’s voice carries down the hall and into her room quite easily. There is a clear sense of haste in her words and her echoing footsteps to match. “Which means her translator isn’t online; she won’t be able to understand you- please listen to me!”

A brief scuffle. “ _Waar is sy? Ek nodig het om haar te sien, Liara._ ” 

“We’re almost there, but- you need to be aware she might not remember you,” Liara cries in exasperation. The sound of fingers trying to grasp at thick fabric. “You can’t overwhelm her.”

“Waar _is Shepard?_ ” A panicked shushing sound at the raised voice. 

She’s lying on her side, her back facing the door when it wedges open. Her left arm stretched out as not to crush her sore IV. The uncomfortable posture relieves some of the pressure from her back for which she’s thankful. Her most recent dose of painkillers had been administered not too long ago. Her eyelids are heavy, but she is serene. Her nightmares can’t find her here.

“Shepard?” A quiet click of the door shutting. “ _Is dit regtig jy?_ ”

“Her medication can make her drowsy,” Liara says in a hushed tone. “Be gentle.”

Footsteps hesitantly approach her bedside like the slow heavy beats of her heart. There is a thickness to the air that she can’t quite comprehend.

A tickling sensation trickles down her cheek then along her jaw. She hums, crunching her eyelids tight before rolling them open in a daze. It’s hard for her to focus with the chemicals surging through her veins, softening her raging nerves. She relishes in its relief.

“ _Geeste. Dit is vir my,_ Shepard.” The form towers over her, but bobs down to be closer to her eye level. She can feel hot breath dusting her warm face, then there is the whine of chair legs on the linoleum floor. Someone takes her hand. She can make out vibrant blue eyes that call to her in dreams and memories.

“Shepard,” Liara whispers, her voice approaching. She can hear her footsteps stop and a white swath stand beside the sitting form. “Shepard, Garrus has come to see you.”

A beat. “ _Maak sy my onthou?_ ”

“She’ll be slow while the medication is fresh in her system. I- I don’t know,” she hesitates, gnawing her lip. “I’m sorry.”

Two big hands take hers and hold it tight in their odd embrace. A low comforting hum and the nervous twitching of vocal cords penetrate the haze of her mind. A comforting caress on the back of her hand. She is safe. They are watching over her. 

She tries to lift her other hand, gnarled fingers and all, dumbly reaching for one of the talons holding her. She clumsily brings her broken digits up the hard limb, bumping over scratches and gaps. Her palm swats the face watching her, her hand suddenly too heavy.

“ _Ek is hier. Ons is albei lewendig, net soos ons wou,_ ” he whispers, his rich voice gracing her ears. She tries to use her fingers to see his face in place of her eyes. She remembers the slick features, the short stout nose and sweeping cheeks. “ _Ek kon nie toelaat dat jy die laaste skoot te kry sonder my,_ Shepard.”

She hums contentedly, the back of her knuckles dusting his chin before falling back onto the mattress heavily. Shuffling, she presses her face further into the pillow and exhales slowly.

The heavy silence is filled with the nervous clack of mandibles. “ _Hoe lank totdat sy kan praat?_ ” There is violent emotion clinging to his words, but he refuses to let his voice waver too much.

“She’ll sleep a little before she becomes more lucid.”

Blunted talons stroke her scarred hands and trace her scars. A thoughtful hum accompanies the gentle and intimate gesture, and it’s familiarity comforts her. Her eyes droop and her pillow swallows her mind.

“Are you sure it’s him?”

Startled awake, which was nothing new to her now, she freezes. The room is dull and it takes a moment for her vision to adjust. It’s so cold she realises and pulls her sheet up with a quivering hand.

“Commander.” Miranda is here. She saunters through the darkness, the only light coming from the emergency strips illuminating the room in a dim blue glow. “Are you sure it’s him?”

She can feel the needling eyes and knows a reply is expected of her. “Of course I am,” she says with a voice so assured she doesn’t recognise it. The formless whispers around her believe otherwise.

Miranda places her hands on her hips and nods, a smirk tugging at her hips.

In a blink, the lights disappear but stutter back to life quickly. She shakes her head and scrunches her eyes. Her hands feel heavy and when she glances down to observe them, there is a gun there clutched firmly in her whole grasp. She notes the model and the missing thermoclip; an outdated design.

The slick sound of a thick swallow between sharp, panicked gasps draws her back to the Salarian standing before her.

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Positive.” The young Turian beside her gestures with his loaded gun which he aims keenly at the narrow alien before them. He’s only a couple years younger than her, but he has the temper of her years following Akuze. 

“There’s no escape for you this time, Doctor,” Garrus spits at the man, “I’d harvest your organs first, but we don’t have the time.”

She blinks and sees the orange pods decorating the walls, floors, and melting ceiling of the rotting ship. She hears the rumbling of the ducts as the fluid drains the once occupied pods she passes, in hindsight, the ones that likely held the colonists.

“You’re crazy.” The Doctor’s petrified voice pulls her back while her knees threaten to seize. “He’s crazy. Please,” he looks at her; at Shepard. “Don’t let him do this to me.”

There’s screaming. It’s sudden and it takes her mind in a torrential wave, flooding her thoughts with noise. She speaks but she can’t hear herself, she can’t feel herself. She’s trapped in a body she can only see out of through a orange window. She’s wailing, hammering her fists on the solid surface. 

A gunshot silences her mind.

Her eyes shoot open, breath alarmingly calm. Her vision is more focused from the fading medication.

Garrus has turned his attention to Liara, but keeps his gaze focused on the broken hand held in his. His head is tilted away and his iconic scars envelop his expression. The side of his face never recovered full articulation. “ _Hoe lank het jy geweet sy hier was?_ ” His voice is too calm. “ _Hoe lank het jy bekend?_ ”

There is a noticeable jump that Liara can’t conceal as the calculated words are throw at her. She clenches a fist and holds it to her chest, her head hung low. She sighs and shakes her head.

She quickly closes her eyes when Liara begins to look up and arrange herself into her business stature.

Liara hesitates with a gentle cough before she speaks. “ _कुकुछ महीने ।_ ” her tone deliberate in its stagnance. “ _मुझे लगता है वह पाया गया था अफवाहें सुनी ।_ ”

There is a twitch in the thick woven muscles of Garrus’ neck, it was always his tell when he was hiding his temper. “ _En hoe lank is_ jy _al hier?_ ” 

If there was one thing that she struggled to recognise about Liara and had ever since she stumbled into Illium with her foreign skin and odd-fitting armour, it was the way the archaeologist learnt to never shrink beneath the gaze of those she respected. “ _मैं मैं अफवाहें सुनी पल से यहाँ किया गया है ।_ ”

“ _अपनी आवाज के प्रति जागरूक रहें ।_ ” Liara turns her attention to her, no hint of surprise on her face to see the soldier lying there awake. “ _शेपर्ड जाग रहा है ।”_

Garrus is quick to drop the topic, the hot coals of his fury smouldering quietly to be stoked another time. “ _Shepard_ ,” he squeezes her hand softly and leans forward to get a better glimpse of her lucid eyes. “ _E-ek,_ ” his words fail him and he instead reaches for her timidly.

She watches him and accepts the warm touch gracing her cheek without flinching. His visor is missing, she realises. “Garrus,” her hoarse voice whispers. “You’re here.”

“ _Natuurlik is ek hier_ ,” he chuckles tiredly, a talon ghosting past her ear. Years beyond what they’ve lived have left a mark on his features in between the time she said goodbye in the muddied rubble. “ _Ek het jou gesê : Daar is geen Shepard sonder Vakarian._ ”

“I,” she reaches for his face again. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

“ _Ek-ek weet jy kan nie. Ek is jammer dat my eerste woorde aan jou, jy kan nie eens verstaan_.” He dusts his knuckles through her shorn hair and the wetness in his eyes is so tender it makes her throat seize. “ _Maar ten minste sal jy nie in staat wees om my te terg oor al hierdie dinge wat ek sê._ ” Another deep rumble of his muted laughter. “ _Ek wil die eerste dinge wat jy verstaan my gesê om te wees ‘Ek is lief vir jou’. Geen van hierdie hakkel gemors._ ”

She watches him with pursed brows and stinging eyes. All these emotions feel as if they suddenly blossomed in her; their presence confronts her and dance too closely to the familiar guilt and shame that the tenderness of the moment is dirtied for her. Although it’s as if there is a barrier between her and the moment; she is a bystander. 

In the only gestures she knows that passes the language barrier, she tries feebly to nudge her head forward. 

Garrus brings himself forward, gently pressing his forehead to hers. There is a dampness that drips onto her cheeks and she can feel the burn of her own tears, but they do not spill. It’s as if they’re stuck, and she can’t understand why. She desperately tries to take him in, the fact he’s here, that he’s alive. But it’s inconsequential to her she realises. 

There’s nothing there. Her feeling is only skin deep. 

She is numb. 


	15. Rest

Her fractured mind struggled for footing when she’d rouse from her muddled nightmares. Almost every time, save maybe three or four incidence, she’d find Garrus beside her bed when she jolts awake tangled in her sheets. He would be either already reaching for her hand to comfort her, or he’d be dozing upright in his chair on an uncomfortable angle. Sometimes his head would be buried in his arms as he leaned on the safety bars.

The oily wisps couldn’t manifest with someone real in the room to frighten them away. The whispers would linger if he wasn’t there to speak over them, but that was okay.

She couldn’t tell the time outside which she still had yet to grow accustomed to, but the artificial lighting had been dimmed and the sharp sleeping figure slouched in the chair suggested to her it was the evening.

Her legs ached, as did her shoulders and hips. Fumbling with the pillows beneath her head, she adjusts her position so she can prop herself up to relieve some of the pressure. The pain wasn’t excruciating, but it’s constant presence grated her weary nerves and occupied her mind between thoughts. It was the fact it was inescapable that made it hard to cope.

She reaches for the datapad on her bedside table, careful not to knock the vase or foreign mug beside it. Her numb fingers fumble for a grip but when she gets it, she is mindful not to make any noise as she pulls the pad onto her lap. She holds a button on the side of it’s body and waits for it to power on.

The gentle rustle of sheets accompanied by the sudden orange glow rouse Garrus from his brief slumber. His head dips and he blinks hard, reaching for his head, then his neck to relieve the kink in it. “ _Shepard? Hoekom is jy wakker?_ ” his voice rumbles, little crackles in his tone come from the exhaustion in his vocal chords. “ _Jy moet rus._ ”

“I can’t sleep,” she responds. She doesn’t need to hear his words to understand the chastising tone. Her fingers run down the screen on her lap and she watches it fondly.

Garrus grips the arms of the seat and shifts his weight forward to stand. “ _Is jy koud? Het jy 'n ander kombers nodig?_ ” he asks kindly. He leans over the frame and carefully pries the twisted sheets from her legs, tucking the material back down the sides of the mattress.

She watches him tend to her and she is thankful for his attentiveness. “I lost my leg,” she says suddenly, embarrassed that the words slipped from her lips. Something tells her admitting it aloud would’ve helped her accept it but the pit opening in her stomach tells her otherwise.

His talon traces the dent in her blankets where her ankle should be. “ _Dit sal okay wees_ ,” he mumbles, sounding hardly confident in his own words. “ _Jy het een keer gesterf het. Wat jy kan kry deur middel van hierdie._ ”

“I’m missing more than just the physical parts of me,” she whispers as she raises her left hand to peer at the missing knuckles and nails. She turns it around to peer at her palm, then the back, the her palm again. She touches her thumb to her index finger, then what is the new tip of her middle, then ring, then pinky. She does the pattern backwards, then again and back. 

There is nothing he can say to help reassure her. Garrus knows she’s right and it was against his beliefs to lie, but he felt compelled to. He thought she was dead; he nearly placed her name up there on the wall he was so sure of it. Her broken body lay here but some of it was empty. She is no longer whole. He wondered if she was still Shepard.

He rakes his talons through her growing hair instead, unable to speak anything of substance. “ _Ons sal kry deur middel van hierdie._ ”

“I don’t remember a lot. I’m not sure how much I,” she sighs and slumps her shoulders. “There are missing... chunks I can’t see past.” The datapad is a blank orange screen waiting for her to gesture it open, and as she stares through it past her lap and through the bloodied earth below her, she finds no solace. “People expect too much of me. The Admirals from the Alliance came through and were disappointed to find... well, _this_.” She gestures to herself with a splayed palm. “Looking back on my experiences in this ward, it’s like some sporadic fever dream.”

“ _Ek weet nie wat jy wil hê ek moet sê, Shepard_ ,” Garrus admits, retaking his seat and pulling it forward with a groan of the legs. He gingerly reaches for her waving hand. “ _Dit is nie asof jy kan verstaan wat ek in elk geval probeer sê._ ”

There is some rigidity when his warm digits touch hers, but her muscles ease and she allows her fingers to be laced with his. “I wonder if I will remember you when I wake up,” she hums. Nestling back into her pillows, the datapad slips from her lap as she pulls the covers over her. 

Garrus holds her hand tighter. “ _Ek sal probeer om hier te wees wanneer jy wakker word. Ek wil nie vir jou verlaat, maar ek het verantwoordelikhede kan ek nie ignoreer nie_.” He plucks the datapad from atop her sheets and balances it on his thigh. “ _Liara sê jy ontmoet 'n sielkundige môre. Ek kan nie daar wees al is_ ,” he sighs, “ _Terwyl jy besig is, sal ek terug na die vlugtelingkamp gaan. Heh, ek is blykbaar die hoogste posisie turian hier op aarde. Ek is in beheer van die koördinering van die vlugtelinge._ ”

She shuffles back into a lying position and watches Garrus from her pillow. She relishes in his touch -- a near constant since he found her here. Even if she didn’t feel so overwhelmed by the surging emotions she remembers once feeling for him, she appreciates his company and his companionship. The simple confidence of knowing he would be here, or at least nearby when she would be pulled from her haunted dreams was enough to rattle the apprehension she experienced whenever she would feel sleep try to take her.

“ _Rus,_ ” he coos, stroking his thumb across the back of her scarred hand. She nods, closing her eyes and relaxing into her bed.

“Thank you,” she whispers.


	16. Instinct

The sand rustles as it skims over the dunes. It’s warm and she can feel the grit through her hardsuit and clogging her ventilation. Her leg is tense and throbbing, much like a sprain and her head is spinning fiercely. Lying here face-down in the sand seems like the best option until the dizziness passes.

It’s so quiet; so serene. It’s unnerving.

Her heart is racing; she can hear her pulse pounding away in her ears. She can feel the adrenaline in her veins steadily dissipating.

Gasping with realisation, she instinctively leaps up only to jar her knee and fall onto her side. The glimmering light of dawn drowns her sensitive eyes through her helmet’s visor and she flinches away, shielding them. Unsure whether the danger had passed or not, she scrambles for her sidearm only to find it bare.

Ignoring the burning sensation that was dominating her leg, she clambers to her knees and reaches for the grenade launcher carelessly lying just out of her reach. She wastes no time in checking and arming it.

She’s panting. Glancing through the scope she sees no immediate threats and lowers it, only now noticing the marines scattered around the torn up camp. They weren’t even whole most of them. Some disembodied hands rose from the earth and torn limbs decorated the land in a macabre scene. The orange sand was stained and she rushes to her feet albeit shakily.

The maw that attacked them was nowhere to be seen. Not far from what was the landing pad she stood beside was the barren settlement they were investigating. It was only a matter of time before the beast was back for more, and if it brought friends, it would be bad news.

She was trained for this. Comrades died on missions, it happened, it was to be expected. One day it’d be her. As always, she swallows the fear that that thought roused and used it to fuel her actions. She takes a deep breathe in.

“Mayday, mayday. This is Lieutenant Shepard. Come in.” Waiting a moment, she gestures for her comms again. “ _SSV Hastings_ , do you read me? My squad has been attacked. I require immediate evac.”

Nothing.

Fixing the launcher to her back with her magnetic holds, she brushes her hands clean and pauses to clear her thoughts. Okay, she needs to find shelter before trying to hail the _Hastings_ again. There would still be supplies in the caches around camp and in the settlement. 

Pulling a cracked helmet from what was left of Private Vice, she pretends she doesn’t see the glazed eyes or bloodied nose staring back at her, mouth agape. She begins collecting any loose ammo and relieving her comrades of any grenades or mods she spotted, using the helmet as a basket.

With her sprain, the trip to the camp’s remains is a slow one. The maw did a good job on the pods and Makos; bites taken out of ceilings, holes burnt through the reinforced carbon exteriors. She locates some rations and saves the few untouched blankets she can find.

She tries her comms again while limping towards the only settlement on Akuze. “ _SSV Hastings_ , this is Lieutenant Shepard. Do you copy?” There’s a blip in the static but otherwise nothing. She’ll have to use the radio tower to boost her signal, provided it isn’t damaged beyond repair.

The colony’s buildings follow the standard issue of all Alliance infrastructure: modern self-reliant pods dropped in from orbit in a geometric grid; radio tower, barracks, greenhouse, labs, hospice, and an armoury. If she has to survive here on her own for however long, she needs to establish a central location with all her necessities within reach. 

Thanks to the wind and none of the first settlers to tend to the site, the sand was beginning to engulf the sides of every building. Her squad led by Corporal Toombs had been instructed to leave the site untouched save only for investigation purposes. Her suits inbuilt radar was picking up no other life signs. The Corporal was likely dead.

She decides on making the hospice her headquarters and uses the omnigel left in her pack to unlock the entry. The red light blinks furiously before switching to green and chiming, the door sliding open. Lights flicker on as she makes her way into the small pod. Empty beds line her left, the sterile room a bright white with tiled walls and floors. Some packets of medigel lie scattered on the benches among other medical supplies.

Dumping the spare helmet filled with supplies on a bench, she limps towards the bed at the far end of the room and drops the blankets onto it. Her joints scream as she shoves the frame hard up against the back wall with a bang. Coming to stand at the foot of it, she pulls the bed along the floor towards the benches. The whine of the tiles makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and she grits her teeth instinctively.

She needs to rest.

Unloading the grenade launcher from her back, she artfully puts it to rest on the benchtop and removes her own helmet to place it alongside it. She retrieves her makeshift pack and collapses onto the bed, her back against the wall, and pulls out a ration bar. Ripping the packet off, she bites into it hungrily and begins taking stock. 

Seven handheld grenades, two rounds for the launcher, a coolant mod, some level 2 tungsten rounds, a level 8 inferno round (who on earth got their hands on that one?), level 3 hammerhead rounds, and a level 4 polonium round. Her artillery was definitely well catered to even if she were lacking in the actual weapons to use them. She had also found some packets of omnigel on what she could find of her comrades.

Her next priority: splint her leg, then raid the armoury.

Glancing around, she doesn’t spot anything immediately obvious that she could use. The cupboards were locked, but she knew enough to know to not go rifling around in medical supplies when she understood next to nothing beyond basic first aide. Affixed to the wall beside the door she came through is a bright red medical box. 

With a grunt, she gets up off the bed and hobbles over slowly. Punching it open, she finds bandages and three packets of high potency medigel, among other things. Returning to her corner, she disengages the thigh seal on her hardsuit and peels the rigid armour off with her boot. Rolling up her exoskin she rips open one of the medigels and smears it on the tender joints of her ankle and knee.

She slips the other two packets of strong medigel into the onboard vitals VI to replenish the ones she’d used while facing down the thresher maw. Pinching her brow, she sighs, trying her best to ignore the persistent headache at the base of her neck. She pulls her hardsuits leg back on, locking it in place, and the same for her boot. The pain had been treated, but she still needed to splint the joints but nothing obvious stood out for her to use. She glances about the room before settling on one of the bedlegs nearby.

Limping over with some bandages which she drops onto the mattress, she dips down onto her good knee before settling her rear onto the floor with a click of her armour against the tiled surface. Biting her lip she investigates the welding on the metal frame. The joins are obvious, but sturdy. She rolls her shoulders and takes a firm hold of the bond she intends to break. Using the power from her implants, she channels her biotics into her arms and fists and pulls as hard as she can. The bars give under her vice but the weld holds. Her L3s hum quietly, then as she tightens her grip, increase their output to match her effort. The bond snaps with a loud crack and she moves with the recoil.

With a huff, she repeats the process again on the next three joins necessary to free the rod. Her vanguard training came useful in times like this when she needed brute force. Straightening the slight kinks she left in the pole to the best of her ability, she stretches out her left leg and retrieves the bandages then begins winding them around. It takes all four she had to fashion her splint. Her eyelids are heavy and she blinks wearily. She still needs to raid the armoury before checking the radio tower.

“Shepa -- Lieut -- Sh -- rd? Do y -- ead?” The sudden noise from her headpiece startles her. She gestures for the implant and manually adjusts the frequency in an attempt to hear better. “This i -- tain And -- n. Come -- pard.”

“Captain Anderson?” She feels her heart race. What would he think of what happened here? “Captain Anderson, I read you but barely. This is Lieutenant Shepard.”

Static. 

She stumbles for the door and punches the glowing button to open it, tumbling out onto the sand. “Anderson? Please, everyone’s dead. I need an immediate evac. They’re all gone, Captain. I-,” she presses her fist to her mouth and pauses to collect her thoughts and blink away the stinging in her eyes. “I’m injured. I require an immediate evac. Do you read, Captain?”

Looking up at the sky, she sees the gentle blue glow of the early morning. There are some clouds scattered, but beyond that is nothing but a blue abyss. “Captain?” she repeats, ashamed of how desperate she sounds. No response. “Captain?”

“Anderson!”

Her throat is dry and her cheeks wet when she surges forward in her hospital bed. She can hear her shouting ringing in her ears and wipes her eyes furiously with the heel of her hand. She swallows thickly, smothering the memory and immediately burying it as far back in her consciousness as she can -- where it has always belonged.

“I’m fine,” she mumbles to herself and tugs at her sheets nervously. “It’s fine,” she reminds herself.

It’s then she realises that she is alone in her room. The chair beside her sits unoccupied. She’ll never admit it, but a spark of fear jumps into her throat and she glances around the room in a panic in hopes to find Garrus maybe checking her drip or something.

He’s gone. He left her here.

She flexes her fingers, still not used to seeing the scarred blanks staring back at her. Alone is where someone as hopeless as her belonged. He had better and more important things to do than sit here with her and nurse her shattered ego.

There is a gentle tap at the door and she is quick to wipe her face once more, the plastic triage band on her wrist scratching her cheeks sharply. Taking a calming deep breath, she watches Miranda enter with menacingly calm eyes. The air that so frequently chased Shepard in the wake of death toll updates and bad news in the months leading up to the Battle of Earth.

“Good morning, Commander,” Miranda greets kindly. “I am glad to see you awake, Shepard. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she lies. She hopes Miranda ignores the chart tracking her pulse and blood pressure.

Adjusting the lights a little brighter, the woman approaches the bed. “How’s your pain levels? You would’ve received a dose while you slept.” Her gloved fingertips lightly touch the safety bar and she places them upon the cool surface with a hint of a smile. When her dark hair falls over her shoulders, there is a pang of jealousy.

“It’s fine,” she repeats tiredly. Clenching her fists under the sheets, she forces a thin smile. “Thank you for asking,” she adds crisply.

“I appreciate your attempt at a façade, Commander, but it was my job to know everything about you. I know your tells.” With a simple shake of her head, Miranda sighs and sinks forward. “Now, Liara has organised you an appointment with a psychologist today. We need to get you moving.”

“I don’t want to speak to a shrink, Miranda,” she grumbles, sinking back against her bedboard. Tracing her index finger up her scarred and burnt arm, she notes the increase in sensation where there had been numbness.

“Oh I bet you don’t, but you should anyway,” the ex-Cerberus operative assures. “Doctor Haupt is the best in his field here. It’ll do you good.” Turning on her heels, Miranda locates the wheelchair folded up against the wall.

She sighs. “I don’t care. I don’t want to talk to him.”

Miranda sighs in turn. “At least meet him, Shepard. It’ll at least give you a reprieve from Liara.” With a click she unfolds the wheelchair and brings it up beside the bed, locking the breaks. She unlocks the guardrails with ease and lowers them down. “Plus you’ll get to go to the visitor’s quarters.”

“Is he going to ask me about what happened? Because I told those Admirals that came that I don’t know, and that hasn’t changed.” She is stubborn, but the temptation of leaving this horrendous room is too good an opportunity to refuse. If this is Liara’s doing, then there was nothing other than following through that could placate her. She’d never hear the end of it otherwise. Anyway, this doctor can’t make her say or do anything she doesn’t want. When Miranda reaches for her, she obliges.

Miranda grunts as she takes her weight and eases her into the wheelchair. It’s hard, but she helps support the soldier as she fidgets until she’s comfortable in the seat. As Liara had instructed her to, not that she’ll ever say so, she retrieves the blanket from the hospital bed to lay over their friend’s lap to preserve some sense of her perceived dignity.

“Where’s Garrus?”

Unlocking the breaks, Miranda pushes the chair out the door and into the mostly empty hall. “He had to return to the Turian camp,” she explains plainly, making eye contact with two armed security officers as they pass. “He is co-ordinating just about everything for the Turian refugees left here.”

“Then why was he here if he’s so busy?”

Miranda’s laugh is an indignant chortle. “Because you’re important to him, apparently,” she says bluntly with a hint of humour. “All you need to do is dangle your dogtags and he’ll come running.”

She tries to memorise the route they take through the winding halls. Everything looks the same; sterile and boring. It’s infuriating. “Why didn’t you want him to come here? I heard you and Liara discussing it.”

“Because you still have no idea about half our history together, Shepard,” Miranda shrugs. She glances over her shoulder to make sure the officers she passed were still flanking her. Coming to the elevator, she presses the button to hail it. “Everyone on the _Normandy_ back in your Cerberus days knew.”

The elevator chimes as the doors open, revealing the small metal compartment. Miranda pushes the wheelchair in with ease and presses the floor number. “If you couldn’t remember him, it would’ve broken him,” she explains with a hint of emotion that seemed uncharacteristic of her. “He’s had enough to deal with.”

The ride is uncomfortably quiet as she mulls over this information. Her memories are formed enough to recall their relationship together, and just how much they cared for one another. She wonders if it was the anxiety of the upcoming final battle that had forged their strong connection, because even with all this knowledge, she only felt so much. She couldn’t tell if she was still in love with him, or whether it even mattered now. She was no longer the person all these people knew. There’d be no grudges held on her behalf if he, or Miranda, or Liara chose to walk away. She was a burden on them.

Another chime once the elevator halts and the doors open to reveal the familiar visitor’s area. The false windows show her a bright and beautiful landscape and bask the vacant white couches and seats in a warm glow. As Miranda wheels her into the room, she sees Liara sitting with a human male. Must be Doctor Haupt, she figures.

“Good morning, Shepard,” Liara greets pleasantly as she stands from her seat. “You too, Miranda.”

She remains quiet as they come to a stop before the two. Her fingers tap together rhythmically in her pattern to occupy them and calm her. Her jaw is tense, it in turn fuels the pounding throughout her head. 

“Hello, Doctor Haupt,” Miranda says politely, “I believe we may have met before.” She reaches around the wheelchair to shake the older man’s hand. The paleness in her knuckles shows the tightness in her grip; a rigidity that everyone notices.

“Yes, Ms. Lawson I believe we have,” he replies with a firm shake of their locked hands before letting go. “It is good to see you again,” the doctor hums with his accented tone. “And it is a pleasure to meet you, Commander Shepard.”

She watches as Haupt reaches out to shake her hand, but stares him dead in the eye. She stills her motions and waits as her unmoving silence speaks for her. She does not want to be here.

“I hear good things about your recovery,” the doctor says withdrawing his hand, taking her stale response in his stride and recovering the conversation. “I look forward to working with you and your current team of specialists.”

She grunts as her response.

“ _मुझे माफ कर दो।_ ” Liara says, deliberate in the useage of her mother tongue. “ _शेपर्ड बहुत जिद्दी हो सकता है।_ ”

“ _Sie brauchen sich dafür nicht enschuldigen,_ ” Haupt responds with a small smile, glancing towards her. “If you’ll excuse us, I’d like to begin our session.” Liara nods. 

Miranda brings her chair to sit across the small coffee table, opposite the chair Haupt stands in front of. She is sure to flick on the breaks before stepping back. “We’ll see you soon, Shepard,” Miranda adds.

“I look forward to hearing how things go,” Liara gives a subdued smile, and places her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “We will speak soon.”

Haupt sinks back into the pristine white armchair. He moves deliberately but there is a cautiousness in his manner. Lifting his datapad from the coffee table beside him, he pulls a stylus from the pad and gestures the holographic screen to unlock. Once Miranda and Liara are gone, the elevator hissing shut behind them, he scribbles and flicks away on his device in a comfortable silence.

She sits in the cramped wheelchair and resists the need to fidget. Instead she taps her fingers repetitively, watching intently, and waits for the doctor to speak. The cogs in her mind tick, tick, tick away while she surveys and calculates Haupt’s next move. Her agitation manifests deep in her gut like a slow burning wildfire beneath the dampened undergrowth of her faltering nerves. She’s dealt with shrinks before. It was a tolerable experience, but only when she was prepared. It’s as if she can’t be afforded the luxury of knowing what the next day brings because she’s too debilitated to think or decide for herself. This meeting was sprung on her, and she will not forgive Liara for it. 

She taps her fingers against each other, her focus returning as she observes the wrinkles and thick dark hairs sprouting fromthe doctor's encroaching forehead. Haupt must be in his fifties -- around Anderson’s age. She wished the Captain were here. She wished to see his face again; sincere, ever present. The years beyond the ships were littered with his memory.

She hasn’t seen the stars, she realises. She misses her mother.

“Shepard.” Her name draws her attention to the doctor once more. “You seem distracted.”

“No,” she says, her voice crawling from her chapped lips as a whisper. She clears her throat, glancing to the side. “No,” she says again more strongly, determined, “no, I’m fine.” She draws in a deep breath and tries to draw a more confident and professional face over her own. “How can I help you, Doctor Haupt?”

The man chuckles. “I believe I should be the one asking that of you,” he smiles softly and his eyes flicker down to his datapad. He circles something he’s written. “Are you comfortable in your chair?” he gestures with the stylus.

“Yes,” she lies, rolling her shoulder and cringing as the muscles pinch. Knitting her fingers together, she places them in her lap. If she is polite and unaggressive, this will go quickly and remotely pleasantly.

Shifting in his seat, the doctor adopts a more conversational posture. “Feel free to call me Haupt, or Natan if you’d like. Do you mind if I call you Shepard," he twirls the stylus leisurely between his short, dark fingers. “or would you rather I use your name?” 

“Shepard is fine,” she shrugs.

“Shepard it is then.” Gesturing with a flick of his finger, he changes the page on his datapad. Jotting down something briefly he wipes at his nose and returns his attention to her. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine,” she responds dryly, sucking in her lip between her teeth. Shifting her jaw, she looks down at her knitted fingers in her lap. “Sore.”

“How is the pain?” Haupt’s brows return to a familiar wrinkle that forms smoothly with the shift of his expression. “I’d like to know how often you experience it -- is it all the time?”

“It’s… tolerable,” she shrugs with a twitch of her index finger. “The nurses treat it regularly. It could be worse.” She wants to leave.

Haupt jots down another note. “I won’t keep you here too long,” he adds with a knowing look, “don’t worry.” Writing something else, he strikes a line then turns his attention back to her. “How are you sleeping?”

A frown takes her as she contemplates her response. Sleep was so sporadic for her; fitful, fleeting. Her natural sleep was riddled with nightmares and horrors ripping and shredding her eyes and pulling her teeth from her gums. When she was under, it was deep and unfeeling until it tapered off into some relived memory. She wouldn’t call any of this _sleep_.

“Not well?” the doctor offers. She nods compliantly.

“You are very distracted, Shepard,” Haupt reiterates. “Would you rather we try this again another day when you are more prepared?”

The fine hairs on her neck stand on end, the ones dusting her arms pucker with goosebumps. She wrings her fingers together tighter, her cybernetics digging in. “Please,” she concedes, her voice small and disgusting.

“I will call for Liara.”


	17. Creatures of Habit

“I thought you must be bored.”

Glancing up from the wilted lily she holds on her hands, Miranda wanders in with a red box tucked under her arm. Her heels scuff on the floor and she shifts to close the door behind her. She places the gift upon the white bedsheets and pulls up the seat that has been void of Garrus for maybe two days now. She still isn’t sure of the time.

“It’s silly, but I used to keep a bookmark collection of little crafting projects I wanted to do with my sister one day,” Miranda chuckles almost shyly if she were capable of such a thing. She runs her fingertips over the top of the glossy box, her long nails immaculate. With a dismissive shake of her head, she returns from the reverie. “I figured maybe you’d like something a bit more stimulating.”

She can feel the leathery petals of the lily as she caresses them carelessly. It’s in this moment she realises the sensation knotting in her chest when she sees Miranda’s pristine skin, luscious hair; her beauty calculated down to her very fingertips.

Pushing her pillows behind her back, she adjusts herself into a somewhat more comfortable posture. “What is it?” she asks with genuine curiosity.

“You can’t laugh,” Miranda hums, “I know it’s pretty stupid.” Once she lifts the lid a sweet aroma wafts from the red box. Inside are an array of vibrant flowers all as bright as spring. Miranda removes some other things including string and scissors and places them on the sheet.

She reaches over for her nightstand and returns her dying lily to it’s vase with a plop in the shallow water before redirecting her attention to the fresh flowers on her bed. Silently, she leans forward to sink her hand into the soft contents of the box; it felt like the simulated seasons of the Citadel when wandering the parks and rolling in the grass.

“Your sister,” she mumbles, plucking a stick of lavender and two poppies for herself. “Oriana,” she corrects herself when the flash of a gun glimpses before her, the name _Niket_ skims her tongue. “Your father still hasn’t found her?”

Miranda tries not to, but falters. “No,” she says with a twitch of her lip. She lays out some flowers of her own choice onto the bedsheet. “And he never will,” she mumbles smugly to herself.

She feels like she’s missed something. Twisting the lavender sprig between her numb fingers, she tries to recall when she saw Miranda last but her thoughts are cut short.

“Anyway, so,” Miranda rolls her sleeves up to her forearm; the taught, shining fabric conforming with surprising ease. “You’ve taken down the Mother of all Thresher Maws, and more than one Reaper but can the mighty Commander Shepard make a flower crown?” She hides her embarrassment with her aloofness moderately well.

“Really?” It’s a childish activity. But it was something to do, to occupy her mind. And it involved company.

“Come on,” Miranda chuckles, “you never made one growing up?”

“I made daisy chains with my mother when she had shore leave, but.” She shakes her head.

“I remember I tried making a daisy chain once between one of my many private classes,” Miranda hums while she arranges herself a bouquet. “I was found by my nanny before I’d even strung three together. I bet it would’ve been nice to do that with your mum though.” She flashes a toothy smile.

“It was,” she admits, although the memory seems so far gone that it’s no longer hers. There’s been so many different Shepards between now and back then; could she have even been a child once? It was as if she’d woken up in his room and all these memories she could find weren’t even hers. The emotions they instilled were as real as anything, she knew that much.

Miranda senses a lapse and intervenes; she had observed her patient falling into these loops numerous times now. She was no Kelly Chambers (thankfully) and for all her knowledge, wasn’t well-versed enough to truly help and if she tried, she trusted her mistakes would realise themselves quickly and horrifically. One thing Miranda knew was to keep her moving, thinking, talking; anything but dwelling.

“I haven’t actually tried the instructions for myself but it seemed pretty self explanatory,” Miranda speaks up while admiring her bouquet. Placing it down on her lap, she takes out two chrysanthemums and pinches their stems and reaches for the ball of green string. “You start with two flowers, twist them together with the string and build on it.”

It takes some consideration and frustrating fumbling to get a starting arrangement she’s remotely pleased with. It was becoming extremely clear to her, and quickly, how far her fine motor skills had to go before she’d find some normalcy in her movements. 

Miranda is kind enough to cut her a long piece of string to use, and she ties a clumsy knot to hold the stems together and starts winding it in a crude manner. She crushes her poppy petals and bends her daffodil stems, and the disappointment she feels for being unable to do something so benign as to not destroy a simple flower is bitter in her throat.

Of course Miranda’s arrangement is beautiful without a flaw. Beyond perfect. And she’s maybe only halfway through.

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Miranda smirks. There are dull bags under her eyes that have been artfully concealed with cosmetics. She grabs another daisy from the box and works it into her garland.

She scoffs sardonically, brushing off Miranda’s jab which quickly bruises her already battered ego. She already hates this activity, and wants it to be over so she can pull the sheets back over her head and smother her face in the pillow until her breath is too stifled to bear. Now when she tries to sleep, she finds herself scratching her forearms absentmindedly in an attempt to stave off the itch that never ceases. A glimpse of the red scabs catch her eye and she quickly angles her arms so she can’t see them -- the scars and mismatched patches of grafted skin are almost more bearable to look at.

Looking over at Miranda’s forearm with a light dusting of brown hairs, she notices maybe three scars. Ms Lawson’s skin is as smooth as her voice; pristine. 

“Something the matter Shepard?”

For a moment she feels like a small child who has been caught doing something they know they’re not supposed to. She swallows her tongue with a submissive shake of her head and returns to her arduous task. It felt like torture to sit here and be compared to Miranda as they worked. She slumps against the bedhead. “How long until I’m discharged?”

Miranda raises her head and does well to subdue the instinctive questioning rise in her brows. She tilts her chin, analysing her friend, before sitting back against her chair and uncrossing her legs casually. Even when she tried to project a leisurely air, Miranda always exerted a dominant aura that strove to control the situation with a choking hold.

“How long do you think, Shepard?” Her long nails trace the petals but Miranda watches the crippled soldier carefully. “What do you intend to do when you’re discharged?”

The questions catch her by surprise. Her stomach overreacts, flip flopping suddenly and violently in her chest and it startles her tired heart. She clenches her fists against the bedsheets. “I want to get away from here.”

“I think we all do,” Miranda hums. “With the way things are, it won’t be safe for you to leave for some time.”

“Why?”

There is a pinch in Miranda’s brow, the early seeds of a worry line. She looks to her hands for advice but finds nothing. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything, Shepard,” she admits, stroking a lock of hair behind her ear. There are two faint white marks on her lobe of rebellious piercings long faded. “But I know for a fact the more you’re kept in the dark, the less cooperative you are.”

The Illusive Man took too long to learn that, or maybe he simply didn’t care, she thinks to herself. Fragments of Cerberus logos and one-way video calls fizzle in the holographic static dancing before her mind’s eye. Narrowing her eyes her vision takes a moment to sharpen.

“No more than ten people know you’re alive, and where you are,” Miranda mumbles, “the longer we keep it like that the better. Until everything calms down beyond this facility, you will not see the light of day beyond the fortifications, Shepard.”

She knew this, yet somehow the news hits her like a shattered Reaper toppling over her. Her worst fears suddenly realise themselves in a tactile, articulated form. She’s trapped. Her fingers quiver, her hairs stand on end. She’ll never leave. She was seemingly born in this room beyond the rubble, and she will rot away in this cell until the memories of her and Shepard, whoever that truly is, fade into obscurity and insignificance. Her life is nothing. There is no release.

“I,” Miranda notices the change and doesn’t know how to respond. “Do you want to rest?” She reaches forward, unsure whether or not to touch her in some gross attempt at reassurance. This woman was her friend, damn, she was her saviour, yet all Miranda ever saw now in those once righteous eyes is fear, disgust, and a hopeless void swallowing her whole. It would consume her and everyone around her.

One thing Miranda shared with the Saviour of the Galaxy, was the instinct to flee. Miranda had at least never mastered how to fight that urge she reminds herself as she excuses herself.


	18. Cattle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fixed some coding issues. Added the italics I lost while moving the document over for publishing.

Climbing the tower was an effort with a grenade launcher, over-modded shotgun, and two pistols strapped to one's body. Her boots struggle for grip with sand caught in between the treads. On her way up the metal rungs, it is so much effort to simply not slip. Four hundred metres isn’t a great height to scale for a soldier. It is, however, for one with who is fatigued, with an injured leg, and in shock.

“Hell!” 

The sharp voice cuts through her laboured breaths and she looks over her shoulder only to see the misshapen full moon. Her comms system is quiet. 

“Even your own unit on Akuze!” 

A pain sparks behind her left eye, she presses a hand to her visor in an attempt to block it out. Trying to soothe it. Anything. Shaking her head, she blinks hard. She can only ignore the stabbing, and resumes climbing the radio tower. There is a sense of wrongness in her stomach but she brushes it aside.

Straight ahead, she can see the stars. The small cabinet she is looking for is so close, only a few rungs away. The twinkling lights blur a little, and sometimes they’ll spin as she moves. But she is focused. With her hand outstretched, she reaches for the handle and opens the latch clumsily. The cabinet door smacks against its hinges and the echo is swallowed by the haunted desert.

A whine escapes between her teeth as she hoists herself up into the small crowsnest. The abandoned settlement was so recently established that not an ounce of rust had developed on the shining structure. Rolling her shoulder, she disengages her visor and peers more closely into the compartment. Chewing her lip, she shakes her head. Communication technology wasn’t something she knew much of.

Pulling up her omnitool, she searches through her offline manuals. No transmission signal also meant no extranet access. The orange light soothes her fried nerves in it’s familiarity. She scrolls through endless files until she finds what she’s looking for in one of her enlistment chapters. Gesturing on her holoscreen to minimise the file to one side, she follows its instructions and brings up her comms settings. She then turns her attention to the compartment before her. 

Peering at the dials, she recognises the old English numerals on the technology. Why the Alliance insisted on using outdated numericals was never something she quite understood, but assumed it was for history’s sake. Such as the unusually square shaped “save” symbol all human-translated programs used. It was just how things were done. Regardless, outdated technology is not the reason she was sitting here in the middle of the frigid night on Akuze.

She continued to follow her manual; tuning the dials, adjusting her radio implant, twisting the dials some more, recalibrating her signal. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be listening for. Anything but static, she figures.

She double-checks, triple-checks that she has the _SSV Hastings_ ’ frequency. “Mayday, mayday, this is Lieutenant Shepard, do you copy?” Nothing. “ _SSV Hastings_ , do you copy? This is Lieutenant Shepard of the Alpha-Delta-Foxtrot Squad. I require an immediate evac. We have sustained casualties on Akuze.” She steals a glance at the sand sprawling the horizon. 

“No survivors.” She holds her breath, teeth gnawing at her chapped lips. A comet shoots past and her heart skips a beat in a brief moment of hope. She watches the stars and begins counting them. She’d never been to this system before. All the constellations she’d seen on star maps in her history classes aboard the many stations she lived on in her youth, she couldn’t recognise here. Everything was skewed slightly, bent just enough that things still seemed familiar but not enough.

_“They are my solution.”_

“Solution?” she asks through her comms, her voice rough, tired. Suddenly she is so focused. As if this conversation was all that her life was meant for. A defining moment. 

“To what?” She leans in to adjust the dial once more as the static returns. There is a blip in noise and she hurries to find its frequency that she haphazardly skimmed past. She curses her recklessness.

“C -- s.”

“To what?” she repeats, adjusting her earpieces volume, “I don’t copy.” 

The static stops.

There is silence. She thinks she hears the distant sound of explosions through the line. Opening her mouth to speak once more, the young voice cuts her off. “Chaos,” it states coldly. It is as if a new weight had found its way into her veins and up through her neck to her drooping eyelids. _Chaos._

Her body is suddenly not hers. Her fingers don’t belong to her, she’s lost her legs, her braining is churning in her skull; her former body pushing her out.

_They are my solution._

But she is still trapped in the hardsuit. Fists grip the ladder, muscles go rigid. Her insides flip.

_To chaos._

Her eyes begin to spin and she begins to falter. There is numbness alternating throughout her nerves. With a sudden lurch, she loses her footing.

“Breathe in deep. Exhale. Focus on your breathing, Shepard.” There is a gentle, rhythmic tapping on her forearm. Her sense of touch is still fried, but she can feel the pressure on her skin. It is oddly calming. She keeps her eyes shut.

_They are my solution._

“Good. Keep breathing.” The tapping continues. “Slowly. Deliberately.”

She balls her fists, pulls her lips taut. A warm uneasiness settles over her like a thin sheet, and she basks in the sensation as her legs feel as if they’ve begun to spin and her mind feels off-balance.

“Now, when you’re ready,” the accented voice mutters, “open your eyes. Take your time.”

A deep breath in. Her chest expands to near bursting. She swallows the sticky lump in her throat and rolls her shoulders. Blinking, she begins to leave the memory. For better or worse.

Doctor Haupt continues to tap her forearm with a pen in either hand. He is wearing simple spectacles, watching her intently through their shining glass. His expression is mild; devoid of opinion or judgement. “What do you feel?”

She stares ahead into nothing. Slowly her mind begins to pick up the pieces of itself and take stock of her surroundings and knowledge. She was in the military facility. She was in an appointment with the psychologist, Haupt. This was real. But the memory, it was so strong. It gripped her heart in its cold claws and held it there.

_To chaos._

“Shepard,” Doctor Haupt slowly leans back into his seat, withdrawing the pens from her vicinity. His knowing eyes observe her as he nestles back against the white armchair and clasps his hands together. He holds his pose briefly before reaching for his datapad and stylus. 

The corners of Haupt’s mouth prick upwards slightly. “How do you feel, Shepard?” He uncrosses and recrosses his legs, his fingers twirling the stylus between the digits.

Blinking, she looks down to her maimed hands. She fists them and flexes, unsure of herself. “I feel wrong,” she mumbles, “it’s like I’m not touching the ground.” Her breath catches, her heart suddenly racing. 

“Pick an object in the room. Tell me it’s colour.” Haupt is calm. A rock. He hesitates before jotting something down.

She notices the slipperiness of her eyes as they roll around in their sockets. Notes the sensation of the muscles adjusting her focus. “The chair, it’s white.” Haupt nods. “The floor,” she licks her parched lips, “it’s… it’s grey.” She looks to the windows.

“Try to stretch your arms, Shepard.”

Distracted, she eventually registers his instruction. First she flexes her fingers, then twists her wrists, elbows. She rolls her shoulders and settles back into her seat; eyes wide and struggling for alertness. Something still wasn’t right.

“Think about Akuze,” Haupt hums, his hand gesturing towards her to gain her attention. “Out of ten, how uneasy are you if you think about it now.”

She looks to her lap, her missing knuckles clasping one another. Her lip catches on her teeth as she thinks. Her nose whistles as she sighs and shakes her head subtly. “I,” she pauses, “I, uh… Um. Four?”

The doctor nods, seemingly pleased with himself. “Four?” He scribbles on his datapad. “Compared to the seven you gave me earlier, this is an improvement.” A smile cracks his worn face. “That is good, Shepard. Very good.”

A pinch in her brow. She rubs at the bags shadowing her face and stifles a yawn. “It will take some time to change how you react to the memory,” the psychologist interjects. “Sleep will help you recover. But I assure you, this is progress, Shepard.”

Progress felt like being forcibly pulled from her body and left to linger in breathless space. Progress felt like drowning in static left to stagnate. Progress felt like shit. Like chaos.

“I won’t make you sit here for much longer. I won’t keep you from your bed.” Gesturing for his implant, Haupt hails for _Ms. Lawson_.

So she sits, and she waits. She had long since had her agency stripped from her. She was simply something to be acted upon now as her new guardians pleased. These sessions are an excellent example of it. Yes, the doctor was kind, patient, professional. He offered her some semblance of choice, but ultimately she was forced to see him. She would comply and clamber into her wheelchair. She fretted the results if she did not move herself freely. The thought of someone having to forcibly move her; her weakness, her violation; her heart pounded. She could not control the situation, nor could she destroy this cell she was trapped in.

She was effectively a prisoner. Not just in her own debilitated, broken body, but in her institutionalised surrounds. She was a prisoner in how they withheld information from her, in how they hid her away from her crew. Isolated.

These people she knew; they showed her kind gesture, they worried and cared for her. But they didn’t respect her. She was a toy, a doll. She could sense the pressure they exerted on her. They wanted something from her, just like the Alliance brass who visited her some time ago. She had information, whether she knew it or not, and they were here to milk it from her. They were building her back up, reassembling the pieces until she could give them something intelligible. Something other than screaming in the dead of night, something other than dependence on the drugs pumped into her to put her to sleep. She was simply dying cattle they were fattening up for the slaughter. Every step towards recovery was one step closer to their reaping. She was their crop they’d sewn, and she would be harvested. 

She meant nothing to them.

She _is_ nothing.


End file.
